PE
by Tonzura123
Summary: It's the first term at Hartbee's School for Young Men, and the prestigious institution is about to experience the full enigma of the eccentric Pevensie brothers. A nonslash brotherfic rated for intense action and frightening nightmares. COMPLETE
1. One: Primary Effort

**P.E**

**Chapter One: Primary Effort**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: Mr. Lewis is rolling around in his grave right now and we know it.**

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"_If someone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles…" Matthew 5:41_

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Edmund Pevensie, of the Hartbee's School for Young Men, was smirking at the piece of paper he held in his hand. From his right elbow, a handsome boy by the name of Peter Pevensie (a spectacularly close relative) was peering at his own slip of paper, with a sort of ill-disguised glee. As one, the boys turned their heads to examine their counterpart's paper, grins growing ineffably as their eyes darted from left to right.

A class mate of theirs, called Jay by his friends, scowled at the bright aura that abounded from the brothers, hunching his broad shoulders in an effort to shield his cloaking despair against their sunny dispositions.

"What are you lot so happy about?" he muttered grumpily, "We have Physical Education all week."

The Pevensie brothers, it would seem, could not be more thrilled about this matter, and the whole school was rather quick to pick up on the reason why.

Now, the young men of Hartbee's had been given a week to settle into their dormitories and jaw with their roommates, giving them plenty of time to laze about and complain about being bored. Seeing how the boys received their papers on a fine Saturday morning over breakfast, and how the young men of Hartbees' School did not have classes but for weekdays, it was not until that following Monday, that the two grinning boys arrived for their first P.E class of the new term.

The class was run by a Mr. P. L Hamilton, son of a long line of drill sergeants and stock brokers. Mr. Hamilton had decided to make his father proud and join this fine tradition, even if in a rather unorthodox method. Having been dismissed from the army for his bad knee, the air force for his bad eyes, and the navy for his seasickness, Hamilton took up the cross at the Hartbees' School for Young Men, where he was free to use his powerful voice to bark out orders, never had to follow them himself, and remained on the solid land.

Mr. Hamilton was, by no means, an arrogant man. Nor was he abusive, or irrational. He and his darling wife (Sylvia) had two lovely little girls (Sara and Samantha). It is to be noted by the reader that he was the most tender husband and "bestest" father, in their little cottage at the edge of the countryside. He even helped with some of the laundry, devoted man he was, and had become fairly proficient at darning stockings.

But this was not his little cottage.

"This," he loudly informed the two, straight lines of young men, who desperately tried to appear the least possible to ridicule, "IS YOUR PERSONAL HELL!"

One might have believed his impressive shibboleth, if not for the two broadly smiling boys standing side-by-side in the front row.

Through his spectacles, Hamilton zeroed in on them with a fierce scowl.

Both of them were fairly tall chaps, though one was much broader in build and retained another good foot of height over the other. The tall one was blond, with a darker face and light eyes. The shorter one was far thinner, with pale skin and dark eyes, accented by his equally dark hair and eyebrows.

Their shoulders skimmed a bit as they stood, though neither made any move to alter that fact.

"You!"

"Sir!" They exclaimed in unison, a feat so perfectly executed that Hamilton allowed his mind to wonder what his aging father would have given to hear it himself. Then he shook himself loose of his thoughts and hardened his features to stern displeasure.

"We'll see if you two troublemakers are still grinning when _I'm_ through with you."

There was a brief instant in which the class exchanged disbelieving glances; Hamilton's eyes must have been very bad indeed- these were the _Pevensie brothers_ he was talking to! Within the week their ways had become a prime subject for public dissection. Surely he knew that they were the biggest pair of goody-two-shoes in the entire school?

"You! Blond. Step up," he went to wriggle his finger to motion the boy towards him, but found that the tall young man had already come forward, his smile only slightly tempered, but his eyes sparking. Hamilton cleared his throat.

"Name?"

"Peter Pevensie, sir."

The other boy discreetly cleared his throat, and the eyes of Peter twitched a bit as he shifted his feet. Hamilton focused on the other and made a similar hand motion, as he had done before. The youth stepped smartly forward, head held high, and hands clenching and unclenching.

"Name?"

"Edmund Pevensie, sir."

Hamilton allowed himself a thoughtless blink.

"We're brothers, sir," Peter offered.

"Yes, I caught that," he turned on Edmund, "How old are you?"

"Fourteen, sir."

"And you?"

"Seventeen, sir."

"And which class is this?"

They blinked in perfect unison, and Hamilton marveled.

"Gym class, sir."

A few of their classmates snickered appreciatively.

"I meant for you to tell me what graduating class the pair of you are in," Hamilton emended gruffly.

Edmund spoke up this time.

"Well, sir. Peter is in his final year. And I'm technically in my third," then, as if sensing Hamilton's' confusion, extenuated, "They only let me into the same classes as Peter's because I- well-"

"He's smarter than anyone in his class, sir," Peter said, not looking at his brother, but an unmistakable puff of pride swelling his chest all the same. Edmund turned an amazing color of red, to which many of the other boys whistled at and were once more thrown to the mercy of their own giggles. Hamilton scowled.

"But gym," he asked of Peter, eying the wiry frame of his younger brother in an untrusting manner, "Is he all right to handle the same physical exertion of seventeen year olds?"

"He is," said Edmund, border-lining an indignant tone.

Hamilton looked to the older brother, who smiled knowingly, shooting his brother a sidelong look.

"He is."

"All right then," without further ado he clapped his hands together and placed the dreaded silver whistle to his lips, shrilly blowing and causing many a lad to clap his hands over his ears.

"Enough talk! You ladies had your fun for the year! Now hit the track! Go! Go! Go! Four times around should warm you up! One mile girls! Move your britches!"

And move they did. Hamilton paced the side of the track with his stopwatch, clocking each boy as he passed a lap, then pretending to tally their mark into his grade book. Several boys caught on (or, at least thought they had caught on) to his scheme, and picked up the pace. If they knew they weren't being graded, after all, they may not have put forth the effort. Hamilton knew that was the trouble with young lads nowadays.

As the lap wore on, the initial band of boys that had clotted the beginning of the track had thinned into stragglers and leaders, with a few who managed to keep a decent pace in between. At the very end of it walked Jacobs, a sybarite who notoriously put forth little, if any, effort. His marks were dreadful. His manners were nonexistent. Yet in the times he cared to attempt assignments, his intelligence could not be debated. Boys like that, thought Hamilton, as he "marked" another boy, were wasting their gifts.

Into the third lap, Hamilton's eyes sought out the Pevensie brothers, and spotted them with the boys in the front herd, both entirely focused on moving their arms and legs at the exact same rhythm of the other. The older one was saying something, and every now and then, the younger one would respond, though his breathing appeared more labored than that of his brother. Hamilton found his ears straining for sound as they neared him, and (being his healthiest of five senses) his ears heard quite clearly that they were speaking…

Gibberish.

Mr. Hamilton raised his eyebrows as he squinted and rubbed his ear nervously.

It sounded almost like Latin, but (as he had studied it for three years) he could tell this was not. German? No! German was a throaty language- Guttural. This, whatever this was, _flowed_ through the air from the very front of their mouths. It rolled off of their tongues and was lapped up in sound waves. It caressed like a sharpened knife.

He shrugged, and shook himself. Now was not the time.

He watched them finish the fourth and final lap curiously, observing them as they continued to speak in low tones, occasionally laughing at something the other had said. They finished the course with light breathing, barely recognizing the laborious pants and gasps of their classmates that sounded around them. When he kicked the lot of them to the field once more to begin press-ups, the result was the same:

Peter and Edmund positioned themselves next to one another, continually speaking as they pumped their arms to push themselves up and slowly level themselves back to the ground. Sweat ran from the little brother's forehead, running down his face and off of the tip of his nose. The older brother's muscles bulged and flexed, impressing upon the gym teacher just how hard the younger was working to keep up with him, and how truly fit the older brother was. 'Goody-two-shoes,' indeed.

Despite popular belief, teachers know the gossip of the school very well.

"All right! Time for crunches, everyone on their back…"

As the ever-faithful groans started up in chorus, Hamilton raised his voice to shout over them,

"Save your breath you whinging crybabies! Jacobs! Stop napping and get your tail over here!"

Grumbling, Jacobs sauntered over to sit, Indian style, next to his only alliance: Thomas Macintosh.

"Ready! Up! Down! Up! Down! Up…!"

Peter and Edmund were no longer speaking their odd language at this point, but seemed to egg each other on with their eyes, shooting each the other a glance every time their brother slowed or demonstrated signs of weakening. The look seemed to be a challenge within itself, and their comrade would instantly surge upwards again with extra vibrancy, raising their eyebrow as if to say, "See? I can handle this- can _you_?"

It was rather interesting to watch, especially when the others began to slowly wind down and struggle to reach their knees with their foreheads, mumbling complaints and (for some) expletives under their thinning breath. Hamilton wondered how often these rich boys managed to get outside to exercise or have fun. It was likely that this was the most physical exertion many of them had ever encountered.

Yet in the center of the field, Pevensie brothers were carrying on in silence, staring each other down in the most intimidating way. The look was so intense, that Hamilton swore he felt a violent chill rattle down his spine at the sight alone.

Who _were_ these Pevensies?

The bell soon rang from the school and Hamilton started, lost in the mind-numbing repeat of "UP! DOWN!" Around him lay the bodies of exhausted and gasping boys, some too stiff to move. Peter and Edmund both gained their feet, breaking their locked eyes and stretching out their cramping legs a bit before they attempted to help a few of their classmates up.

"Easy, there, Jay, you may have strained your calf with that last one; take it easy, here, let me help you up-" Peter was saying, causing Hamilton's ears to prick up.

"Nasty bruise, Macintosh. How on earth did you manage that? Let's get some ice for it," Edmund said, sounding almost impressed. Jacobs was staring at the back of his head in an odd manner, as if her were trying to place something together, or remember some obscure fact that continued to elude him.

Hamilton waded through his students to the brothers and pushed them both out of the way.

"Any injuries can be brought to me, boys, understand? Don't you know you can make something like this worse if you don't treat it right? There now- ah! Thought so. Come on, I'll help you to the locker room. We'll wrap it- Pevensie!"

"Sir!" The duo snapped to attention smartly, and Hamilton tried hard not to applaud.

"Get to class, you two hooligans. Don't make me write you up for cheek."

They smiled understandingly, first at him and then at each other, and nodded, collecting their stuff to go to the showers and change. Jacobs glared after the younger Pevensie until his dark head as Peter drew Edmund to his side for a brief hug, and as Edmund shoved him away with a single hand in a surly manner. He watched until the pair were concealed behind the school walls.

Hamilton shook his head.

"Those Pevensies."

"Tell me about it," Jay said, as he hobbled precariously on a single leg, resembling an awkward flamingo, "Those chaps are absolutely nutters."

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**Definitions:**

**Ineffable- **_**too great to be described**_

**Shibboleth- **_**an old slogan or principle that is still regarded as essential by some members of a group (in this case, the Gym Teacher Organization ;))**_

**Extenuate- **_**making an offense seem smaller by offering a partial excuse or explanation**_

**Sybarite- **_**a person who is fond of comfort and luxury**_


	2. Two: Pidgin Edification

**P.E**

**Chapter Two: Pidgin Edification**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: I'm fairly certain I don't own Narnia…

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"_Then again, the one having the likeness of a man touched me and strengthened me," Daniel 10:18

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_**CLANG!**_

My eyes opened in a brief lapse of panic, adrenaline surging throughout the veins and nerves of my body at the ethereal, ominous toll of the courtyard bell, and I surged upwards in my bed, leaning over the side while watching the door, my fingers scrambling for the handle of Shafelm, my eyes waiting for an enemy to crack through the weak wood.

But slippery air was all my fingers found, and I turned to look for my weapon, providing the perfect opportunity for a staggering thought to drop from the heavens and render me unto full consciousness-

"England, Pevensie. You're in England. In your dorm."

It was true- as my eyes began to adjust to the dim light, I recognized the lugubrious grays and blacks of the sheets and comforters. The drab, white-washed, and flimsy barrier that was allowed to be called a door. The smallish cupboard intended to hold the clothes that I had foraged from my home in Finchley, along with the several pairs of uniforms provided by our school. More black: It seemed that England was forever in mourning.

I sighed loudly, permitting all of my vexation and exasperation into one lungful breath. As early as it was (one o'clock, judging by the single ring of the schoolyard clock tower) I didn't bother worrying about waking anyone else in the dorm. A private room had been part of my scholarship, after all.

Instead, I rolled off of the side of the bed, shivering as my feet came in contact with freezing floorboards, and padded over to my schoolbag, which was propped on the side of an _admittedly_ handsome armchair. I easily snapped open the latch with a flick of my finger, and slipped my hand in to delicately pull out a paper from the front folds. As I stared at it, I managed to backtrack my way to the bed and sit on the edge, a smile working the corner of my mouth.

If you never knew, I have a single sibling younger than myself: a sister named Lucy. At the time, she was the age of eleven (or twenty-six, if you'll believe it) and had lately taken to finding ways to express the sheer joy and love that came out of her in a constant flow- a channel, of sorts. Of its source, I have an intense suspicion.

This paper (or, rather, this _picture_) had been a gift to me in parting, pressed into my baggage-ridden arms by a young vision in green. I could see her eyes, in the backdrop of my wall- clear and blue, surprising flecks of spring grass and chips of amber sometimes floating to their front, winking at me from beyond her light, golden lashes.

'_Just look at this when you feel lonely, Edmund, and you'll think home.'_

I traced a thumb lightly over the small painting, admiring the artist that had made it with a deep and honest furor.

The subject was relatively simple, in design. Its creator had used cheap, basic oil paints and brushes (she often _refused_ to complain about, despite their obnoxious size), and her hand was still not completely developed, so she had left slight impurities within the strokes. Occasionally a bubble would be visible, from trying to paint in a windy area.

It showed a cramped cave lit faintly blue as if immersed in darkness, with a lone figured (_dis_figured by shadow) curled in the farthest corner. Hunched and broken, the only part of them visible was their hand, which stretched out of the corner (pinched and bruised) into a small patch of intense light. The tips of their forefinger just barely caressed the velvety surface of a small, golden flower that had arisen from a thawing patch of snow. The ice had melted in the sunlight, leaving a perfect ring of white versus the dazzling green beneath the surface.

Another ring (metallic in matter) rested on the finger touching the flower. The same ring that had been worn by all four of us (Peter, my sister Susan, Lucy, and I) when we were Kings and Queens in a land called Narnia. But more of that story is for later. Essentially, it was clear that Lucy was trying to tell me that this figure, huddled and miserable, could have been any of us.

But it hadn't been. And for this I was eternally grateful.

Pressing my fingers to my lips, I gently reached forward and faintly placed them upon the petals, and fancied that a feeling of warm sunlight had enveloped me in its embrace.

**OoOoOoOoO**

"Ed? Ed! _Ed?_ You in there?"

Loud rapping dragged me (and I use that word because it felt _quite_ literal) from my deep slumber, and I slowly realized that my chin was planted on my chest and was making me feel very uncomfortable.

When I did dare to raise my head, my neck began to groan and pop noisily; I had fallen asleep on my bed while admiring Lucy's picture and had somehow managed to slide onto the floor in a doubled-up, half-seated position.

I stretched and let out an irate moan, which seemed to be the wrong thing to do with a distressed Peter pounding on my door.

"_Ed!"_ I half expected him to jerry-rig a battering ram, but was pleased that he was finding the patience to restrain his Narnian instincts.

"Wait a minute, would you!" I called, pinching my eyes shut and unsteadily gaining my feet, cracking my spine as I tottered across the room, "I was asleep!" I unbolted the door and my brother fairly exploded in, grabbing me by the shoulders before I could blink. Then, quite frighteningly, he began checking my forehead for a presumable fever. I seized his hands and threw them off of my face.

"What in Aslan's mane has gotten _into_ you? Don't you know what _time_ it is?"

"Don't _you_?" Peter asked forcefully, as he resumed his hold on my head and pulled back my eyelids a bit to measure the radius of my pupils. In my frustration and grogginess I feigned biting at his hand and he instantly released me. A sheepish grin inched onto his mouth at my healthy temper, but such was Peter's idiotic idiosyncrasy.

"It's noon," he announced, "You missed classes. I thought you were in a meeting with Collins so I waited for you to show up- have you been asleep all this time?"

"Oh, _Aslan,_" I said fervently, rushing my cabinet to throw together a presentable wardrobe and hastily changed my nightshirt to a more appropriate dress shirt. I listened to my brother cross the room as I battled with a feisty black uniform sweater and heard the tell-tale creak of box springs as he sat on the edge of my four-poster.

"Did I miss anything important?" I asked him, squeezing my shoulders through the bottom of black wool. By some miracle, Peter and I had ended up matching each other class-for-class in our schedules, and he dutifully began filling me in on details now.

"P.E was pretty much the same thing it's been the past two weeks- running, press-ups, crunches, with additional activities 'for fun', at Jay's expense-"

"What'd he break today?" I asked the inside of my sleeve, writhing within its confines to inch my arms through.

"Nothing's broken. Today he fainted."

"_Fainted_?"

"Hamilton announced that he was taking over the rugby team."

"So?" I wondered, forcing one arm up and into its sleeve with a great yank on the edge of the sweater.

"So, Jay had intended to try out for the team while he thought Coach Drillment was still working the job. I think he believes anyone Hamilton's in charge of will soon die from fatigue."

"Hamilton's not _that_ bad. I should have liked to see them face Orieus," my other arm wriggled through its sleeve and I retained a moment of satisfaction before I realized I had put the sweater on backwards, "Drat it all!"

Peter laughed cheerfully and stepped over to me, helping me wrench the sweater up and over my head with a powerful tug. He then held the dratted thing up before his eyes and warily squinted at it.

"Perhaps they gave you a size too small."

"Impossible." I was already throwing clothing to the ground as I dug about for a sweater that hadn't been shrunk in the wash. "I got all my clothes in a size one too _big._"

"Perhaps you grew."

I paused in rifling through my drawers and looked up at him in surprise.

"But- when we left- I was the same height as in Narnia when I was fully grown. You're saying I grew _more_?" I self-consciously began looking at my hands and arms in wonder, wishing for a looking glass or something so that I could properly observe myself.

"Well, let's see."

My big brother stood directly in front of me and placed his palm on the top of my head, dragging it forward in a leveled state until it bumped up against the middle of his forehead. I watched his robin eyes widen as he tripped back a half-step.

We were both fell into a heavy, brooding silence as we took in the fact that I had grown about three inches more than I was supposed to. Oddly enough, I was just as _upset_ about the idea of being taller than ever as I was _thrilled._ I was different than the person I was in Narnia- now not only in my class rank, but in my physical body.

Did I want that? Did it matter if I did? What else about me was different from the person I worked to become? The person I worked to retain?

Strong arms suddenly enveloped me and pulled me forward, out of my steadily darkening thoughts. Peter rested his head atop mine and gave me a small blessing upon my crown, and I relaxed a tad against him, missing the days when hugs were frequent and proud, public or no. Embraces like this were warm, and comforting, and empowering, and (dare I say it?) sweet. Not that I'd let Peter know that.

"You great girl," I groused, half-heartedly shoving at him, "I'm not about to burst into tears."

Peter let out a small snort into my hair I felt him begin to hum an old hymn that we had discovered in our earlier years of ruling Narnia.

"_Et an erra manxs? Terro purst de an…"_

I closed my eyes, letting his deep voice vibrate richly from his chest and into my ear, as I was rested there, and sort of brought up my own arms to hug him back lightly- just enough to let him know I understood what he was doing.

It was in the old language- the Old Narnian. A language that had been invented in Narnia's earliest age, and was dug up by our librarians and scholars in the second year of our reign. By our third year we had realized its potential in tricky situations, and, by our fifth, Peter and I had fully mastered it, using it in every situation imaginable. War meetings, court functions, awkward parties- dead languages have their uses.

Only Lucy ever really knew what we were saying, though she never fully comprehended Old Narnian herself. Susan didn't even bother. To her credit, she had discovered another clever way to send secret messages via her embroidery, and used the method often when my brother and I were off to war.

But this language…I loved it more than words can express.

"_Et en erra manxs? Terro purst de an…"_

'_Who shall I fear? There is not one…'_

"_Nat en pax. Desrg de mast an manxs_…"

'_Peace my child. Run not from one fear…"_

"_Biaxs mi Lan. Biaxs mi Lan…" _

'_Believe in Him. Believe in Him...'_

He finished the song by gently fading the last verse into silence, and we stood comfortably for a long moment- just the two of us brothers. Then-

"Oh, blast it all-! I have to go see Collins about missing classes!" I pushed away from my brother and ran back to the cabinet, desperately renewing my search for fitting clothing. Peter stared at me for a second, then gave a small, grudging grin and shrugged off his own uniform sweater from his broad shoulders, expertly tossing it and its bulk into my face.

"Wear that. My classes are over for the day. You can borrow my extra until we get you a new set."

"You're a lifesaver, Pete," I said with a broad grin, and felt oddly humbled as I was forced to roll up the sleeves to see my hands. He came forward and helped me button a few of the buttons while I worked on the sleeves, a strange grin stealing across his features. He let out a snort and shook his head, now smiling at my buttons with something reminiscent of glee.

Yes, if you were wondering, I _do_ worry for him.

"What's into you?"

"Nothing, I just-"he shook his head again, and his grin grew, "I was remembering when you were younger and I had to help you get dressed and such. All your clothes were too big, like this sweater is. Buttons were a tool of the devil to you back then," he laughed out loud, eyes squinting when he threw back his head.

I felt my cheeks heat and shoved him over so that he toppled onto his side, and fumbled for a reliable riposte. None forthcoming, I sputtered out an old shibboleth;

"Mother Hen!"

And I exited the room with stiff movements, my brother's hearty laughter following me as I descended the stairs to the main dorm, half-running to get to my Headmaster and explain my folly of missing my classes, before it was too late.

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**New ****Vocabulary:**

**Pidgin-**_**simplified language, especially between two people of two different languages**_

**Edification-**_**an uplifting influence on the mind**_

**Lugubrious-**_**dismal or mournful**_

**Furor-**_**uproar of enthusiastic fury or (in this case) admiration**_

**Idiosyncrasy-**_**person's own way of behaving, due to their character**_

**Riposte**-_**quick retort**_


	3. Three: Principle Err

**P.E**

**Chapter Three: Principle Err**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: This is a fan fiction website- doesn't that make me a FAN?**

"_Wounds from a friend can be trusted, but an enemy multiplies kisses," Proverbs 27:6_

There was a sound of crisp knocking on the office door and Ms. Helen, the lone woman and head secretary of the school, looked up from her typewriter to summon the poor unfortunate within.

"Come in."

The door creaked open as if on cue, and a tall young man stepped through, his head of curled black hair a mess on his scalp and an overly-large sweater that was rolled up at the sleeves and falling off of his shoulders. Surprisingly, as he closed the door behind him, Ms. Helen Dupree fancied she felt a distinct impression to stand and curtsey- an act she had not practiced since the superintendent had made a surprise visit- but the feeling passed as quickly as it came, leaving her in the small room with the poorly dressed teenage boy and her hands paused above the keys of her typewriter.

"Excuse me, Miss," the boy said, his voice soft but undeniably clear, "But I must speak with Headmaster Collins."

Ms. Dupree eyed his sweater again.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"The headmaster informed me to come whenever I pleased, though I _do_ have a reason for being here, and it isn't to complain about my schedule, so you needn't worry."

She relaxed a bit in her chair; there had been an awfully large amount of boys who felt they were working too hard in their first week and decided it was time to reconfigure their entire day, an act that she alone was left to puzzle out. Heaven knows she lost enough sleep over it all. Ah well, one less to deal with.

Ms. Dupree opened a filing cabinet that sat beside her desk and began rifling through the folders.

"Name?"

"Edm-"

"-_Edmund_, my boy!"

The secretary squeaked in shock as Headmaster Collins (and his stentorian voice) burst from his office into the reception area, his black robes streaming off of his large, long frame and his monocle squinted in front of his eye. He crossed the room in a few large steps and practically snatched up the hand of the young man- Edmund- that is- pumping it up and down with dramatic intent. The shoulder of the sweater slid off of its perch and the boy was forced to use his free hand to hitch it up again.

"How _are_ you, my dear prodigy? Classes hard enough for you?" He tilted back his head and laughed uproariously at his joke, and finally released his grip on Edmunds' hand so that he could clap him on the shoulder instead. Ms. Dupree slowly removed her hand from her racing heart and the headmaster caught the movement from the corner of his eye.

"Ah, Ms. Dupree! I hope you have been making Mr. Pevensie here comfortable! Look at him! Couldn't he and I be twins?"

"Mr. Pevensie?" Helen asked weakly, feeling ready to slump back in her chair, "The scholarship student?"

"Scholarship? Ah- no no, my dear. His _brother_ is on scholarship. Edmund here practically pays for himself!" Again, his wit had him doubled over at the waist with loud guffaws, "How _are_ you, my boy? Come to tell me about your week?"

"More about today, sir."

"Eh?" Collins asked, a frown swooping onto his face and roosting impressionably upon a wide mouth, "You don't have a complaint about one of the teachers, do you? Or are the older boys giving you a hard time?"

They were a sight, the two of them, both dressed in full black with dark hair and dark eyes, both tall, both incredibly handsome, both renowned for intelligence, yet with the older figure purposefully puffing out his chest so that his mass could be distinguished from beneath the fountain of robes, a hand clutching the shoulder of the youth with near-possessiveness, and the youth standing tall beneath the commanding grip, making no such move to try and fill the massive sweater that nearly blotted him out from sight, seeming almost to use its bulk to shield himself from the hand that loomed over him.

Ms. Dupree didn't' believe she had ever seen two people who were _more_ opposite than they.

"Nothing like that, sir," Edmund said, flipping back his head a bit to navigate his gaze out from under his dark bangs, "It's actually my fault, what happened."

The monocle slipped out from the eye of the headmaster and he suddenly and brusquely released the boy, motioning for the door of his office without so much as a word, but with his broad smile thrown back onto the stage-wide mouth. Edmund allowed himself to be ushered into the room by the sweeping sleeve of the headmaster, sending Ms. Helen Dupree an almost invisible quirk of his own lips before the oppressive door slammed shut in his face.

"Prodigy or no," she murmured to herself, turning back to her work with absent thoughts, "If he upsets that man he'll be chewed up and spat back out."

OoOoOoOoO

Edmund had always been a good judge of character, a trait that he and I used often when speaking with dignitaries, rulers, "peace" treaties, women, and all other sorts of obnoxious obstructions. He always seemed to know which were bent on saving the people and which were bent on saving their purse. Sweet words and broad smiles meant nothing to him, didn't sway him as they had begun to sway me, didn't stop him from setting me right and pointing out their wrong.

I know that, at least once, that same knowledge came in good use, and saved the lives of all for of us when a faun, driven mad by the loss of his family, placed his grief and blame upon my family, and attempted to kill us all on Edmund's first birthday in Narnia.

_The throne room of Cair Paravel was easily described as beautiful. Rich red banners with golden visions of the Lion rampant hung from massive poles near the high, vaulted ceiling. Flowers of all sorts were gaily streamed about the hall, leaving not one object, Animal, Magical Creature, or Ruler undecorated. A huge table had been set up the length of the room, piled high with every sort of good food, all of Edmunds' favorite deserts and pastries, sweet wine from our vineyards was rolled in by the barrel, allowing every eye to gaze thirstily upon them, and the fauns began the celebration by striking up a lively jig, flipping and dancing like the talented acrobats they were. _

_Edmund sat next to me on his throne, looking out over the roiling crowd to search out and watch our darling sisters, a smile battling with his stoicism for claim of his lips, dressed in all of his Narnian finery (the only finery I had seen him wear and LIKE to wear), his silver crown shining out from the span of black hair that threatened to overwhelm its boundaries, his body completely relaxed and at ease in the merry atmosphere- the most contented he had been in months._

_Susan was (for the moment) posted near the food, graciously serving guests and thanking them for the tottering pile of gifts he was intended to accept later that evening. Her flowing gown trailed slightly behind her, capturing the firelight in its glimmering material, and her long, dark hair was curled so that it spiraled down her back, wrapped with tiny wreaths of roses and forget-me-nots._

_Lucy was on the dance floor (where else would she be?), her crown long forgotten on the seat of her throne as she threw herself to the beat of the pipes and drums, twirling and leaping, and with Mr. Tumnus desperately trying to prevent her from tripping or hurting herself. She was laughing brightly, raising her hands in an exclamation of joy._

_Eds' birthday was, ironically, the first to be celebrated at Cair Paravel, seeing how I was born in the hottest month of summer, Susan in the mildest day of decaying winter, and how Lucy had been born in the full bloom (surprise, surprise) of spring._

_Edmund had told me once, in bitter reflection not too soon after he was rescued from the White Witch, that his birthday was in the heart of winter, deep within the bosom of ice and caress of freezing winds._

_Since our reign had begun **after** the hottest day of summer, I had blatantly dismissed the idea of taking first honors, and insisted that my little brother take it. Until he sat there, surrounded by loved ones and happy subjects, I know he hadn't been exactly comfortable with the decision._

_Lucy whooped from the floor, spinning in a tight circle that caused her upper layer of skirt to flair out and fan up, like a dradle or spinning top, and the smile finally won the war for Edmund's countenance. _

"_Lucy's going to fly away, at that speed," I said, throwing back my goblet of wine with relish as a smiling satyr handed me a glass, and basking in the warmth that was radiating from my fellow king in deep, steeping waves._

"_Yes," he said, fangs showing, "And you'll be picking her from the rafters." _

"_I?"I wondered, pretending to look indignant._

"_Only you get up that **High**, Mr. Magnificent," Ed teased, accepting a glass of wine from a passing cousin, who hiccupped in a giggling manner, before tripping away. As is called for, I flicked a crème puff at his head._

"_Oh, hardy-har, Ed. Well done."_

"_Yes, I rather thought so," he said, propelling another crème puff back, and catching me in the temple. But before I could properly align my forces of pastries to launch a retaliation, Lucy ran up to us both ad threw her thin arms around my little brothers' neck in a joyful hug, thus blocking my target from view._

"_Happy Birthday, Edmund!"_

"_Thanks," I watched him as he hugged her back, inhaling through his nose the scent that I knew was sunlight and flowers caught up in her shimmering red hair, "Are you enjoying yourself?"_

"_Of course I am! I love to dance- you should come and join us, Edmund!"_

"_Thanks," he said again, as I finally managed to bounce a baked good off of the side of his crown, "But I have to put Peter into his place up here."_

"_Don't listen to him, Lu," I assured her, calming lining crème puffs along the edge of my platter so that I could go down the row and launch them one by one at his face, "He's only sore he's losing the battle. Go on and drag him to the dance floor." Flick. Flick. Flick._

"_Oh, all right!" Edmund said, standing up smartly and using Lucy as a shield from further offensive fire, "We'll dance until Peter wears off that wine."_

"_Hey!" I cried, pretending to be mildly insulted, but by then Lucy and Ed had reached the floor of the hall and were trying to jump into the middle of the song, laughing at their blunders, and falling over each other. _

_Lucy, being barely up to his shoulder, was remarkably nimble on her feet and managed to dance literal circles around him while he stumbled about, in a maladroit manner that made me laugh heavily from my seat across the room. He grabbed Lucy's hand and spun her around by the tips of her fingers, laughing as she pretended to keep going, arms up in a mock pirouette. Soon Susan was with them, and they all linked hands to spin in dizzy circles like Ring around the Rosy, the dryads swirling flowers into the air as they spun._

_Suddenly Edmund tripped and tottered forward, barely catching himself and standing back up uncertainly, looking around him in a wide, slow circle, his eyes a bit dazed. Lucy stopped as well and turned to him with a questioning look, but he smiled and signaled for his seat, causing her to nod as he worked his way back through the crowd and to the dais. _

"_Tired already?" I asked casually, as I accepted a goblet from the same smiling satyr for him to take, and as he collapsed gracelessly into his throne. _

"_A little dizzy," he admitted, holding up his hand to ward off the wine I reached to hand him, "I probably spun too much."_

"_Probably," I agreed, and let him be, focusing on my food and the music. If Edmund didn't want to talk about something there was no one in all of Narnia who could make him, after all._

_He rested his head in his palm and stared out across the hall, squinting a bit in the fire light, every now and then blinking and squinting harder across the brightly lit room, or rubbing his eyes like he was trying to gouge them out. Perhaps he felt poorly?_

"_I must be more tired than I thought," he muttered, rubbing his eyes again in a wearied manner._

"_Did you say something?" I asked, looking at him worriedly from my seat. He waved a hand at me as if to brush a fly from his ear._

"_Nothing. I'm just a little worn out, is all."_

"_You're not coming down with something, are you?" I felt ready to leap out of my seat at the very thought, "I could explain it to everyone if you went to bed early.'_

_Strangely, he seemed perturbed by this idea and shook his head fiercely._

"_Forget about it, Peter- I still have… to open my presents."_

"_Well, you don't look feverish," I said, sternly evaluating him from where I sat, though I was forced to grip the arms of my throne and level myself out of my seat so that I could properly see him, "And you did eat, so you still have an appetite. And your eyes aren't glazed over so-"_

"_I get it. You pay very close attention to my wellbeing. Now, if you don't sit down, you'll get a royal pain in your Magnificent back."_

"_Sense of wit is intact," I mumbled into my goblet, darkly casting my eyes over the crowd. I felt Edmund follow my gaze and then stiffen in his seat, causing me to glance at him in worry. He had paled considerably, eyes now wide with horror and confusion, looking as he did when awakening from nightmares, haunted and incapable of movement. I was ready to reach and take hold of his wrist and was distracted as Foible, a faun archer in Edmund's regiment, trotted up to the pair of us, bowing low as he presented a pair of wineglasses to us in his hands. _

"_My good Kings! I come to congratulate you on the anniversary of your birth! Would you care for some of the wine?" he asked in his slightly squeaky tone._

_I thanked him agreeably and reached down to take it when suddenly Edmunds' hand flew out of nowhere, knocking the brimming goblets from the servant's hand and causing them to clatter noisily to the floor, spilling all of their contents onto the glistening marble. He looked startled, standing from his seat and staring at the faun in increasing distress._

"_Ed!" I said, both shocked and appalled at his actions, and turning to the faun in apology, "I don't think he meant to do that, good cousin, he's been out of sorts all night. Ed, apologize, would you?"_

_But Edmund was looking at the faun in disbelief, a small tremble taking over his body as he continued to stand in heavy silence, his gaze utterly locked with the faun, both seeming in a completely different world_

"_Ed," I urged, feeling a strange thrill began to spark down my own spine, and an odd strength begin to flit back and forth in my veins, like a caged animal waiting for a fight. I nudged my brother in his side and he started from his daze._

"_Don't drink it," was the first thing out of his mouth. The faun looked from him to me, almost as dazed as my brother seemed._

"_Does-"he swallowed and sucked in a deep breath, an act that drew further from his reverie, "does your brother not like wine?"_

_Edmund recoiled when he spoke, anger stealing across his features._

"_Close your mouth!" he cried, quite beside himself, "And do not touch my brother!"_

"_Edmund Randall what on earth has gotten into you?" Susan lamented, breaking from the crowd to where Ed had lurched on his feet, and I gripped the sleeve of his doublet to try and lead him out the back door of the throne room, eager to get him out of the smothering atmosphere and to calm him down privately. _

_I didn't expect Edmund to fight back._

"_No- let me go! You don't understand, you must let me go!" He cried, bucking and squirming and thrashing in my grip in a way he never had before, completely out of his head. I saw the stunned faun edge back into the folds of the crowd and began to seek out our youngest sister, another goblet in hand, "Peter! Let me go! He's not- Don't drink it Lucy! IT'S POISON!"_

_At the word, 'poison', madness broke out in the hall, Animals and Creatures fleeing in all directions, the guard surging forward to reach their royals, Lucy and Susan froze in their tracks, looking terrified, and I, completely thrown by this voicing of matters, let go of my brother, allowing him to fly forwards, tackling the faun to the ground as he approached our littlest sister. _

_As he jumped forward, I yelled the only thing that seemed to make sense at the time:_

"_Oreius! My sword!"_

_As talented as my brother was with sword play, his weak, childish body was nothing to launch into hand-to-hand combat. He would soon wear down, and then he would be in trouble. I needed to get to him before that, meanwhile elbowing past the screaming hordes of party guests. Oh, why hadn't I worn my sword to the celebration?_

_I looked on as Edmund landed on the shoulders of the faun, dragging him down with his sparse weight, and as the creature attempted to squirm away, elbowing my brother in the gut so that he almost let go. Then Ed hooked one of his legs and made Foibles' knee bend out from under him, crashing them both to the floor. They wrestled a bit, both struggling to pin the other and I watched him grab my little brother's throat, his eyes red with hatred, choking him as they fought._

"_EDMUND!" I screamed in terror, watching his eyes begin to roll into his head as his breath was being drained from his lungs and his legs kicked uselessly beneath him, his grasp on the hands asphyxiating him slowly weakening and slipping to the floor, his mouth open and seem to strain against itself to capture even a small gasp of air. Then cool metal was in my hand I exploded through the last of the crowd at a full run, slamming anyone who dared to **cross** my path **out** of it._

_I saw Ed closed his eyes and bring his forehead forward suddenly, with all the strength he could muster, cracking his brow against the fauns' nose and causing him to cry out. They had switched positions just as I reached them, with Edmund pinning the archer to the floor with a heavy riding boot pressed onto his throat, eyes wild and yet coldly calculating, looking far older than the twelve years he possessed. Oreius cantered up behind me, reached below Edmunds' furious hold, and hoisted the perfidious and bloody-faced archer up by the back of his neck, dangling him high above the floor. _

"_Move and you forfeit your life," he rumbled, eyes dark with fury. He had no sword in hand, but then, a sharpened tool was not necessary when he had command of such power at his very fingertips._

_I grabbed my little brother's arm and lifted him to his feet with a reckless ease I didn't know I controlled, drawing him to my side as I leveled my sword at our would-be murderer. I felt him shudder a bit in my hold and felt a compelling urge to wrap him in my arms and cry in his shoulder with relief. Lucy appeared and attached herself to my brother's side, stroking his arm in a soothing manner. Susan also stood beside us, wide-eyed as she placed a hand on my shoulder, staring at our supposedly loyal servant in a way I had hoped none of my siblings would ever have to._

"_First things first," I began, collecting myself and glaring at the archer, "Edmund, are you hale?"_

"_Yes," he managed, shivering with gasping breaths and never removing his eyes from the soldier, his hand locked over Lucy's, his knuckles turning white with the effort._

"_Next, is it true, Archer Foible, that you have come to today's celebration of our brother, King Edmund the Just, with the full intention of poisoning him?"_

"_You stupid child! You arrogant pig!" Screamed Foible, by way of answer, writhing in Orieus' grasp, "May Aslan curse you a million times for what you have done! May all your family burn in the deepest flames of **HELL** for **your** blunder! May you-!"_

_He drooped suddenly and the General removed his hand from the pressure point on the back of the fauns' neck._

"_Thank you, Oreius," I said sharply, feeling my nostrils flare slightly as I released an aggravated breath through them. The monster had narrowly avoided a vicious death, "You may put him up until we're ready to deal with him."_

"_My King," Orieus bowed and marched the unconscious Creature from the hall, leaving his captains to escort the rest of the guests to their rooms (while inconspicuously looking for weaponry, of course). _

_As suddenly as the danger had began, I was sure it was over, and the odd strength that had roared up as a great fire in my body suddenly vanished, leaving me weak and tired._

_I slipped my sword in the decorative sheath belted to my side and turned to fully wrap Lu, Su, and Edmund in my hold, feeling warmth engulf me as they all responded, reaching for each other and to me in order to complete the embrace._

"_Are you all all-right?" I asked softly, laying my head atop of theirs and inhaling their separate scents to calm my mind. I felt Lu nod into my shoulder, and Susan said gently that she was perfectly fine, only a little worried. Edmund also nodded, rendered speechless by emotional overload, and I saw him try to find a way to touch all his siblings at once, settling for his forehead on my chest, his hand in Lucy's, and his arm around Susan's waist, also deeply breathing through his nose to mix their warm and wonderful scents into one gorgeous perfume._

"_Thank Aslan," said Lucy at last, after we had all been silent and hugging for a while._

"_Yes, thank the Lion," Susan repeated firmly._

"_For giving us a clever brother," I stated solidly, gently kissing his brow in our huddle, "I have a feeling it's not the last time I'll say it either."_

I was right.

That doesn't mean, however, that I ever fully understood how Edmund was capable of winnowing out the ones with lethal intent. If I'd have to, I would guess that it was a skill that he garnered from his time with the Witch.

Ed had once told me that he had loved her, when he first met her, in all of her beauty, and her majesty and (I suppose) her kindness to him. She was a sort of salvation, and he had placed every last inch of his faith in her, giving us over without question, because he had trusted he needn't _distrust_ her. He let himself be led around with his eyes shut, and (as much as he was angry at us) I don't believe that he would have ever given us to a witch who meant to kill us. He was a child. He was sheltered. He was naïve.

Aslan knows where that led him.

It must have been like a slap in the face to him. A stab in the back. She went from practically feeding him from her hand to not giving him a crumb, locking him in a dungeon, beating him, threatening him, promising him…

I will _never_ forgive Her for what she did to my brother.

Then, just as he was about to give up hope, he was rescued from her, carried away in the arms of our future General, and handed into the care of Aslan, who was kind to him as well, from start to finish. He _died _for Edmund- and not for gain, or vengeance, or selfish intent, but for giving, for justice, and for the utterly selfless reason to simply _love_ Ed as he was.

And as he could be.

I think Ed may have seen that better than any of us. I think Ed's eyes were fully and painfully wrenched opened to a lot of things- including unctuous snakes in the grass.

Aslan knows there's always more of them.

* * *

**A/N: I originally intended to have this entire chapter dedicated to the POV of the principal, but ended up with commentary from the secretary (because being inside of the principals' head was TOO weird o__O;) and the rest was the flashback POV of Peter. ^__^ Because he's a sweetie pie. **

**Sorry there wasn't a whole lot of information included in this chapter about what's happening with Collins. I think I'm going to give a little information at a time on that matter. For instance, a lot of what Peter was doing was an example of foreshadowing and parallelism. But I _will _say that everything hangs on whether or not Ed does well in his classes…**

**Once again, I thank everyone who has reviewed so far! It feels like having a personal cheering-squad! X3 I appreciate all of the people who have managed to find my many typing errors and point them out to me. I've made an effort in trying to avoid those same mistakes in this chapter, but if I still missed them, I apologize profoundly.**

**!!! Those who type a simple, one-worded review are not going to be condemned. They will be _canonized. _Readers who aren't in the mood to write sentences that pick on plot and grammar are free to express their reaction with a SINGLE WORD. Example: "Liked." There you have it. ^__^ !!!**

**I hope the week's gone well!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

**New Vocabulary:**

**Unctuous- _unpleasantly flattering_**

**Stentorian- _(of a voice) extremely loud _**

**Perfidious- _treacherous, disloyal_**

**Maladroit- _bungling, clumsy_**

**Canonize- _to declare officially to be a saint _XD**


	4. Four: Painstaking Elocution

**P.E**

**Chapter Four: Painstaking Elocution**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: Disclaimed, disowned, and distorted; such is the way of a fanfiction writer.**

"_I urge you, brothers, to watch out for those who cause divisions and put obstacles in your way that are contrary to the teachings you have learned. Keep away from them," Romans 16:17_

* * *

_I don't know what I had been thinking. _

_Perhaps I hadn't thought at all, merely reacted to the increasingly horrifying events that were churning, milling, exploding, expounding around me. The realization that I was quickly running out of time- that _**Peter**_ was quickly running out of time- had been the initial burst that nearly drove me mad with worry and anxiety, pushing me until I thought there was no other alternative than to once again put forth my Order's motto:_

Sacrifice.

_I had been given one last opportunity to do so, and I would have taken it without a second's hesitation._

_Had Aslan not intervened, that is._

OoOoOoOoO

Edmund sat in the offered chair, watching with dark eyes as Headmaster Collins arranged his many folds into the high-backed armchair, a light smirk drawing up the corner of his mouth at the creaking and groaning of thick leather beneath the man's matured weight.

"So, Edmund," he said, adjusting his monocle in front of his eye and brows drawing together lightly, "You've slipped up already?"

"It was an honest accident, sir. I overslept."

"Define 'overslept', Pevensie," Collins said, voice growing deceptively soft, a character trait Edmund could easily parallel to someone else he had once known better than was healthy. The man leaned a little back in his chair, much like a coiled asp, his fingers drumming in sync with the mounted clock on the wall, "I hope you only mean you were a few minutes late to class."

"No, sir."

"What then, young man?"

That tone- he _loathed_ that tone. He was being addressed as nothing more than an ignorant child, and every time he used _that_ tone, Edmund lost ground as a King, and gained another slap on the hand as a schoolboy. Every bit of his character and person was being thrown into question at the very gesture. Never mind that this man was barely older than _he_ was at _his_ true age. In Narnia, children may have been blessings, warriors, rulers, Redeemed- but in England, in this sickly, weary, hateful world, children were a subject to be pitied.

And now he was one once more.

Edmund breathed in deeply, frustration mounting in his chest as the seconds ticked by. Better to get it all out at once, he decided.

"I missed _all_ of my classes."

The drumming fingers utterly stilled, and Edmund's gaze lifted from their buffed nails to the face of his headmaster, looking for a reaction in the placid surface. And though his careful eyes found nothing, the wild tugging on the side of his heart seemed to scream out to him of coming danger. Collins finally moved, leaning farther back in his seat and steepling his fingers in front of his mouth, staring over them at Edmund with all the intensity of a scientist evaluating a misbehaving Petri dish.

"You realize what this does to matters, don't you?" he said at long last, blinking slowly and purposefully, his voice like a patronizing mother, "It calls your _honesty_ into question. And honesty is something _very_ difficult to obtain, especially after it is lost. I am beginning to impugn you as we speak. You've managed to endanger the _entire_ agreement in a single morning, Edmund. Whatever are we to do now? We can't let this happen again, can we?"

He paused and allowed the boy to mechanically shake his head.

"Do you remember what we agreed upon? Perfect attendance, perfect grades…in layman's terms- you were to be the perfect student, in exchange for your own conditions, of course."

"It was a mistake, sir," Edmund barely forced out over the hammering of his insides, "and it won't happen again. I only thought I should tell you myself."

"Admirable, but I could very easily make the mistake of letting it slip to your brother what _you've_ been doing these past months, Edmund. Very, _very _easily. And then who would need me to repeat myself? It only takes one mistake, you know."

Edmund only knew that too well.

"We have two options," Collins continued calmly, placing his hands back upon the desk much like a minister come to forgive his sins, "We can either call off our bargain completely-" he stopped again as Edmund made a sudden movement, and waited for the wide-eyed boy to once more become inert before murmuring, "-Or, we can add onto it, in order to ensure we avoid more of these…_mistakes_."

The feeling inside of Edmund intensified until he felt on the verge of vomiting, his heart fluttering about like a caged bird who's bars were being stalked by an eager predator, panicked and desperate.

And so very afraid.

"You know your options are limited, Edmund, my boy." The tone was almost fatherly, kind, loving.

The meaning, however, was clear.

I own you. I _command _you. I command your obedience.

'_His blood is my property…' _

Unbidden, the whispering chill of Jadis' voice ghosted through Edmund's mind, sending shivers down his spine and wracking throbs into his ribs. He closed his eyes, memories resurfacing.

_He was to die. He was to die by Her hand, in the moment of his freedom, the second of his correction. He was doomed to the tie that connected them, that vied to kill either of them. It was his fate, his kismet. He'd never had a chance to make up for it. He would never have that chance. What did it mean to be killed by the one you loved and learned to hate?_

'_Come and take it, then!'_

'_Peter…'_

_To be saved by the one you despised and learned to cherish?_

Just as unbidden (but far more welcome) was the warmth that exploded from the core of his sternum, radiating outwards, and that simply erased the tendrils of cold that hooking into the niches of his being. Love; immeasurable, unstoppable, unflagging, filled him to his toes, and he fiddled with the sleeve that continued to droop over his fingers, the scent of his brother flooding his jumbled thoughts with only one goal. One statute.

One lifestyle.

"There is no other option," Edmund said softly, in remembrance, and nearly felt the soft, living warmth of the Lion's mane wrapped around his hand in guidance, a rumble echoing in his head of the Cat's paean, finally raising his burning eyes to Collins' once more, "What is it that you want?"

Collins lifted the corner of his lips into a contented smirk, and Edmund ignored the frantic, insistent drumming of his heart.

For Narnia.

For Aslan.

And for Peter.

There was no other option.

OoOoOoOoO

"One-two! One-two! One-two! Come on girls! Get your scrawny legs pumping! Pevensies! Let's go!" Hamilton roared, as he puffed up his cheeks and shrilled his whistle with a might gust, wind-milling his other arm to rush the crowd of breathless boys down the track.

Ed and I instantly picked up the pace, effectively bottlenecking the class's formation, and I snuck another glance at him, a grin twisting my lips.

"Rugby?" I asked for the third time, still not completely over the matter, and enjoying the panicked reaction that arose from him each time I said it, "Traej lo creanaix _rugby_?"

Ed shot a glare in my direction as a few of our classmates looked to us in curiosity, and spread his step farther so that I was forced to race just to keep next to him, and so that we pulled a good measure ahead of Jay and Macintosh.

"Really, Peter. There was a reason I was in charge of stealth, and you weren't," he said, watching the track slip beneath his feet as he ran.

"It's not my fault the Narnians didn't have a word for it. As if us speaking in an indiscernible language weren't tipping them off about something in the first place." I looked over my shoulder, feeling a dose of thrill run through me as we continued to pull farther and farther away from the pack, outstripping the lot of them in seconds. Their faces no longer expressed surprise, as the past three weeks had dulled the effects of our performance on them, but rather upheld a resigned sort of awe. Two or three looked resentful, Jacobs among them.

I would have to watch him…

"It doesn't matter, Pete," Edmund said beside me, huffing a bit, "I'm just tense. I haven't played rugby in forever. What if I blow the whole thing? I'm probably still rubbish."

I let my eyes dart to the opposite side of the track, where the class had attempted to catch up to Ed's set speed and had worn out nearly automatically.

"Somehow I don't think that'll be a problem, Ed."

"How can you-? Oh."

He, too, noticed our pace and slowed it down, his body visibly relaxing from bunched shoulders, stiff movements, and small, necessary breaths to practically sagging with weariness as he breathed in deeply and we dwindled to a fair jog, a light brush of red touching the edges of his cheeks. My sweater slipped off the edge of his shoulder again, and he drew it back over his gym shirt, irritated, with a sharp click of his tongue.

"I'm sure the nurse's office has extra uniforms," I said, nudging him with my arm so that he tripped sideways and gratefully shot me a scowl, "Why don't you ask them for one in your size?"

"This one is fine," he said, once more adjusting the broad neck line on his small frame, and I snorted, reaching over to assist him.

"You're swimming in it, Ed."

"I intend to grow."

"That's quite a ways to go," I teased, as we pulled up behind the lagging class, and he ducked his head to avoid their stares.

"It is," he murmured, determinedly not meeting my eyes or the eyes of our classmates, "But it's for the best."

"If you say so," I replied, raising an eyebrow at his odd behavior, but making no move to call him on it, with the others listening in. I looked up and caught the gaze of Jacobs, intercepting a dark look that was meant for Edmund, and returning it with a fierce stare of my own, forcing the young boys' ire away from my brother. Instinctively, I shifted closer to him and formed a sort of human barrier between them, wondering at this on-going spite.

"Provis," I muttered under my breath, causing Ed to redirect his attention to me, and then to follow the path of my gaze, "Dan ne traej blosx lan?"

"Pronae ne de," Edmund answered, frowning slightly in thought, his dark brows drawing together at the pale center of his forehead, "At least, I don't think I do. De traej?"

I shook my head just as Mr. Hamilton pulled out his whistle and gave it another puff, partially deafening the boys who had managed to pass directly in front of him at the most inopportune moment.

"Come on, you dandies! One more lap! Pevensie- Blond and Brunette: you're done! The rest of you move! Go, you wheezy bagpipes! What doesn't kill you makes you stronger! You two, come here a moment." He wriggled his fingers and Ed and I answered the summons, peeling off of the pack as one unit.

"Sir?" I asked, smiling a tad. I never knew what, but seeing and speaking with Mr. Hamilton always made me feel like I was at home in Narnia- perhaps it was his soft being at the core of his military bravado. A sort of watered-down Oreius with two legs and glasses.

And a potbelly.

I grinned again at the thought.

"Headmaster Collins sent me word this morning that _you_," he poked a finger at Edmund, "Are trying out for the rugby team."

"Yes, sir."

"Well?" Hamilton demanded, looking between the two of us for an answer to a question I seemed to have missed. Edmund and I shared a glance, and he made a slight inclination of his head, so I answered for the both of us.

"What do you mean, sir?"

"What do you mean, what do I mean? Aren't you going to try out as well, Pevensie Senior?" Hamilton asked gruffly, in a manner that spoke of his minor embarrassment for having to ask, "I have yet to see an activity in which both of you are not involved. Why should this be any different?"

Again, Ed and I looked to one another for the answer, and I gave Edmund a small smile, presenting him with leeway to speak on our behalf.

"Mr. Collins," he began slowly, as if thinking for the correct words, "Enlisted me to join, as a sort of public service, by playing off of my natural interest in the game. Peter, however," here he peeked at me through his fringe of bangs, "Has yet to decide what he will do with his free time."

"I was going to examine potential universities," I added in, feeling my heart swell with the look of fierce pride that Edmund was trying to bury beneath a cool expression.

"Universities?" the teacher asked, "What are you intending to be, Pevensie?"

"A doctor, sir."

"Fitting," both Hamilton and Edmund said at the same time, and the three of us were suddenly thrown into a moment of awkward silence as the two of them looked at the other in surprise. Then-

"If you want some experience in the field, you can always sign up as a intern with the staff nurses," Hamilton finally spoke, "God knows how often our players get injured- you'd be ready for a hospital in no time. It's part of the reason I'm taking over the team this year."

"Injuries?" I asked politely, feeling Edmund shift guiltily next to me and my own sense of over-protectiveness kicking into high-gear, "That often? What usually goes wrong?"

"Wrong? Nothing, unless you count smaller players. Our opponents are typically big boys from London- _they_ weren't brought up on a million dollar diet. Those boys can play harder than any other team in England." The man paused and then seemed to remember something vitally important, turning to the track just in time to see the last dregs of derelict boys finish their third "last lap", waiting for the nefarious whistle to signal their break. Hamilton hastily raised the metal tube to his lips and blew three, short whistles:

"Good job boys! You've just completed your playtime for the day! Now get to the center of the field! We're learning Trojan pushups today!"

Scattered groans littered the field, and Macintosh ran up to him, breathing heavily.

"Sir! Jay- He-"

"What'd he break this time?" Hamilton asked, slinging the emergency bag over his shoulder with a sigh.

"His nose, sir," he said lachrymosely.

"How on earth did he-? Never mind, Macintosh. Just show me where he's laying about and moaning."

Thomas began to lead him away, apparently shocked at the idea that a broken nose wouldn't arouse sympathy or remorse within a gym teacher, and Hamilton stopped to turn to me again.

"Come on, Senior; consider this your first day on the job. Brunette- get to the field and warm up with the rest of them. Get moving, boys. Don't have all day."

Edmund looked relieved at the notion, and began to slip away, until I grabbed him by the wrist, and drew him back towards me so that I could speak directly into his ear.

"Shi lai dostal matte, Pronae," I whispered, and released him, wondering at the nervous look that jittered in his round, dark eyes. But he nodded as he left, understanding that I would not let up until I was to the bottom of the entire mess, and I turned to follow our teacher, the both of us heading to our respective ends of the track.

"So, Pevensie," Hamilton asked as we strode side by side, and Macintosh guided us forward, "Ever set a broken bone?"

I glanced at his gut and flicked my gaze back to the path with an uncontainable smile.

"Once or twice, sir."

* * *

**A/N: The fourth chapter es fin! XD **

**My humble and sincere apologies to those that the scene with Collins confused further; trust me when I say that Edmund has a reason for feeling so nervous and distressed around the man. Something that ties in with the flashback from the former chapter ;)**

**Because so many people were excited about the Old Narnian language, I incorporated more of it into this chapter, and gave back Hamilton as well (because a ton of reviewers like his character and because I'm too fond of him to leave out of the story, regardless of his overall role in the plot…)**

**The idea of Edmund's motto belongs to the author, elecktrum, and therefore should be praised as their work, not my own. I am but a groveling author in search of meat for the skin and bones I call a story. XD Just thought I should give credit when it's due.**

**I NEVER EXPECTED SUCH FEEDBACK! O__O It really makes me grateful for all of the wonderful writers in this fanbase that have read and reviewed my story so far. Special thanks goes to the ones who dared to take on the role of Editor, and pointed out the many, MANY obvious mistakes I managed to overlook. (__ I'm SO sorry you were put though that.)**

**To those who DO see mistakes in this chapter, and feel their nerves being grated at the sight alone, feel free to pick them out to show me. I've already learned quite a bit of grammar in this manner…As ALWAYS, I also encourage the readers who hate writing diatribes to leave ONE-WORDED reviews. It's simple. Click on the "Review Story" button, and type a single adjective. For example:**

"**Good."**

**Ta-da! ^__^**

**Happy Valentines Day to All!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

**New Vocabulary:**

**Elocution- _art of speaking_**

**Paean-_ song of triumph_**

**Lachrymose-_tearful_**

**Kismet-_destiny_**

**Impugn-_to express doubts of truth or honesty_**

**Derelict-_left to fall to ruin_**

**Nefarious-_evil_**

**Old Narnian:**

_Traej lo creanaix rugby?- _You are joining rugby?

_Provis, dan ne traej blosx lan?- _Brother, how do you know him?

_Pronae de ne.- _I (Edmund) don't (do not).

_De traej?- _Do you?

_Shi lai dostal matte.- _We will talk later.

How the Old Narnian's used the word "I":

Old Narnians didn't have an actual word for "I," instead they used their name, as we would speak in third person. Since the names "Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy" didn't exist naturally in Narnia, the Pevensies use the literal meanings of their names. Like this:

Peter= rock= Cornar

Susan= lily= Nano (pronounced "Nah- no")

Edmund= protector= Pronae

Lucy= light= Laxian

There you have it! :D


	5. Five: Protecting Eyes

**P.E**

**Chapter Five: Protecting Eyes**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: I'm just not the "Original-Creator" type.**

"_But the word of the Lord came to me, saying: Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you; before you were born I sanctified you; I ordained you a prophet to the nations," Jeremiah 1:4-5_

_When I awoke, the entire world was rocking in a universal cradle, swaying and bumping about upon a choppy sea, or rolling along, the sensation of flying in one's dreams, the feel of a mother's swaying hold, the drift of the tide at the base of your ankles in the surf. Soothing…lulling…I was tempted to drop back into slumber, feeling far more protected and secure than I had in-_

_My thoughts froze in hesitation:_

_Actually, I didn't know _how_ long it had been since I first arrived in Narnia._

_I sighed and curled in on myself, ignoring the twinge from lower legs, relishing the dream of warmth while it was still there, fancying that I was wrapped in a pair of strong, blanketing arms that cocooned me next to a solid warm of pulsing life, a sturdy "thump" echoing past a hardened barrier and into my cheekbone, nearly matching the flow of the world's movement with it's beat, imagining the deep voice that rippled through the warm air and struck my ear._

"_Son of Adam? Do you wake?"_

_I smiled, keeping my eyes closed and snuggling closer to the center of heat that radiated from the form holding me;_

_A good dream, then, if Dad was here._

"_Son of Adam."_

_My tired mind was allowed a brief moment of reconciliation with rational thought, as the voice grew more insistent in its volume, and I realized several things in quick succession-_

_Namely, that I was, indeed, very much awake, and that none of this was a dream._

_My eyes flew open and I was startled to the core to find I was not tied against a gnarled tree, dreaming, but rather, being held up like a newborn babe in the crook of the arm of a _massive_ centaur, the voice of whom had presumably spoken to me, and who was now looking at me warily from beneath a dark, sharply-defined brow. A stern frown constituted the foreground of his facial expression. _

"_You are awake then, Son of Adam?"_

_I had been freshly exposed to Hags, Werewulfs, Minotaurs, Boggles, Vampyres, and all other sorts of magical Creatures (that I had only ever read about in story books) in my last moments with the Witch. Her camp was crawling with the things, all of them far too interested in tormenting me for their own good, (hence why I was being carried, rather than walking). _

_But by all that is Holy, upon sighting my first Centaur, tall, and bronze from summer sun, and stern, and clearly distasteful of me, but **good- **I felt as though all words had been pulled back into my mouth as easily as rolling up my tongue and stuffing it into some far attic of my mind, leaving me with only vague motor movement._

_I dumbly nodded, my eyes widened and drinking in the sight before me._

_He returned his gaze to the land ahead of us, and only then did I notice that we had traveling companions, a Cheetah, a few Fauns, and a Warthog, who loped along beside us at our rapid gallop, occasionally shooting me curious looks. _

_I ducked my head and buried it back into the breastplate I had been resting on, feeling guilt consume me._

"_Are…are my brother and sisters safe?" I murmured reticently, not daring to look up in case he would choose to frown at me again. My fingers fiddled with a knotted pattern on the metalwork of his armor, a few of their fresher cuts still healing over with cherry-coloured blood._

"_You assume that we are loyal to Aslan, then, Human child," the Centaur answered, glancing down at me with an unreadable flash of his blackened eyes, "and not some trick of the White Witch?"_

"_You're not Hers," I said softly, so sure, and yet not quite understanding of how I knew, "and there is no middle ground in this War for any other option."_

_The grass pounded along beneath us, a lush, green blur pushed behind our party by Herculean hoofs, the spilling sunlight of the horizon threatening to drown us in its flood. I peaked upwards to spot a brown Gryphon soaring above us, releasing a mighty shriek when golden washed him in glorious rays, and executing a joyous twirl through his open domain._

"_There are some," the Centaur responded, after a brief period of thought, "that would tell you they are loyal to neither side, and rule themselves."_

"_Then the She already poisoned their thoughts to at least keep them from Him," I muttered darkly, knowing one of these miserable wretches rather personally, "But, sir-" I twisted again to look up at him, "my siblings. Are they all right? Did they find Aslan?"_

_He looked back down at me, searching my face for something. _

"_Yes."_

_My breath left me in a choked sob, and I felt the sound startle the heartbeat thumping by my cheek. I closed my eyes again, not really caring who saw my tears flow from their corners, an uncontainable smile spreading foolishly around my lips, which trembled as the large weight of constant anxiety over my family's plight finally lifted and I was filled with a joy such as I had never known existed in my entire life. _

_What mercy was this; that He would not allow my brother and sisters to come to harm, despite what I had been willing to do to them? _

_I let out a watery laugh, feeling as light as the Gryphon spinning air through his wings above us, having no worries about what would come anymore, as long as the ones I loved (oh! how I loved them!) were protected and content._

"_We are going to them now, Prince Edmund," another voice said, and I blinked back tears as I turned my head slightly to see the Warthog peering in a concerned manner up at me, so that I gave a small, pure smile._

"_Thank you," I whispered, my voice lost in emotion, and the thundering of the groups hooves, "Thank you, good Sir."_

_I swear he smiled back at me, and the blanketing curiosity and strange tension covering our party lightened considerable from there on in._

_Another half-hour or so, I could see the cliffs of Beruna, and, sailing above them, were the magnificent, blood-red banners of Aslan's camp._

_My heart lurched in its place._

'_Peter…'_

'Why, you little _liar_!

'_Lucy…'_

''Some little children just don't know _when_ to stop pretending!'

'_Susan…'_

'Well,_ that _was nicely handled!_'_

_What kind of monster had I been? How fitting that the Witch had been able to take me under Her wing so little effort. I knew they wouldn't forgive me for what I had done. How could they? I didn't' need their forgiveness. _

_Having them alive was enough. _

_The Centaur slowed his pace to a canter, and then a trot, and we mounted the cliff side, pulling above the sharp rocks to a beautiful, brightly lit camp, with more red than I had ever seen. Tall, rich tents stood starkly from the forest green carpet that spread evenly across the site, blaring yellow flags with Lions Rampant stirring sleepily in the glowing sunrise, a few of the night watch seemed to perk up with excitement and wonder as we approached, their heavy gazes causing me to flush._

"_General!" another Centaur called to the one carrying me, "Praise the Lion you've returned in safety!"_

"_Thank you. Captain," the General said, nodding in his direction, "Please tell Him that we have arrived without loss to our party. And that we have brought the Youngest Son of Adam."_

_Anyone whose gaze had not yet realized my presence suddenly locked onto me with avid stares._

"_He?" a Satyr asked in obvious bewilderment, his eyes popping from his face, "But he's barely the size of Princess Lucy! And why are his legs shaped so funny?"_

_I swallowed and felt my heart climb into my throat. _

"_And yet the littlest Majesty has already proved her weight in gold- more so. Do not be caught up in size, Malkep, it does not suit your intelligence," the General said sharply, his voice carrying over the sleeping camp, so that Malkep shut his mouth with lightening speed._

_I…I could be wrong, but I daresay that moment had been the _second_ time the General had come to my rescue, and the first time he had done it out of something other than obedience or obligation to his King. As a result, the ones presents shifted guiltily, and one or two looked at the General in surprise at his outburst, flitting their watch from him to me, drawing a line between the dots and making a connection that was unseen by eyes alone._

"_Well done, Orieus, my faithful one. You have served Us well."_

_There was a fluid wave of movement, and the General- Orieus, now- knelt, then bowed, collecting me further into his hold so that he could bend at the waist and fold one arm in front of his torso, bowing low over the earth to the form who had appeared from the shadows to join us in our midst. I turned out of his arms with wide eyes, feeling my words strangle in my throat once again as awe swept through me, and I saw with my own wretched eyes for the first (and, as I expected, last) time, the Magnificent and Holy Lion. Lord over all other Creatures of Narnia. The King of the Wood. The "Big Geyser," as Mr. Beaver had so eloquently put it._

_Aslan walked towards us, towards _me_, with rolling, perfect, cat-like steps, the muscles in his haunches collecting and shivering beneath His golden mane, paws the size of hubcaps, teeth the length of kitchen knives, eyes like golden, yellow coins, their pupils focused on my face, and their sight focused on the torment of my soul._

_And, sharing the gaze of the Highest King in all of Narnia, I was filled with a jolting, overwhelming, unquenchable urge._

"_Orieus-" I wet my lips, not able to tear my eyes away from the Golden God, barely managing to work my voice over the static air, "-Orieus, I need you to let me down.'_

"_Prince Edmund, your legs…"_

_A thought was sparked off in my mind, and I faintly recalled in my dazed state that my legs had been mangled by the Witch when we had arrived at Her war camp, as insurance so that I could not run from Her sadistic dwarf, Ginnabrik, and so that I would be too weak to complain or hold faith of living to see my siblings. Below my knees was a twisted mess of flesh and shattered bone, torn muscle, and bloody gore. Special treatment for the special boy. I could no longer feel pain in them, but, obviously, couldn't stand either._

"_I don't need them for this, General."_

_Comprehension dawned on Orieus' face, as he carefully lay me on the ground in front of him, and I gripped his forearm to level myself from the ground, folding my broken limbs beneath me and allowing my upper half to fold on itself, planting my face securely in the grass. I lay without movement, making neither sound nor daring to raise my head back up until given leave. I felt Orieus' hand gently touch my shoulder, and brought my eyes above the wreathed earth, to see Aslan looking at me with both sadness immeasurable and love infinite._

"_Welcome home, dearest Edmund."_

_I returned my eyes to the bosom of the grass, a deliriously happy smile working the edges of my lips, contesting with the constant churn of guilt and weight dragging me into despair. 'Dearest Edmund!' This truly was the Merciful King who had saved my family from death. _

_A death I had worked to send upon them._

"_But why do you not rise to greet me?" Aslan asked gently, his voice creasing with concern._

"_Because, Sir, I cannot. And I dare not," I confided to the ground. There was a moment's pause, then-_

"_Leave us. I will talk with Edmund alone."_

_The comforting weight of the General's hand left me, giving a small squeeze before it released its hold, and the footsteps of a large crowd faded away in the morning darkness. I heard a large, gentle sweep of the grass parting and pushing to the sides as He approached on padded feet, and I tensed where I lay, expecting a large, clawed paw to fell me at any moment, preparing myself for the fate I deserved._

_A warm, moist jet of air stirred the hair on the back of my head, a light snuffing sound, and a rumbling echo rolling smoothly from His mouth filled my ears with its tune. He was standing right above me, holding my very life between His feet, His mouth close enough to my neck to either rip it out in one little twitch, or tickle it with His whiskers. Another rustling of the grass, and I realized He had laid directly before me, His tail tip flicking through the reddening air with contentedness, before He stretched out His neck and pressed a warm, wet, Lion kiss to my forehead, right between my eyes, which flew open at the touch._

_He smiled down at me, affection rushing at me through His tawny stare._

"_I would have you love me, Edmund, before I would have you fear me."_

_It was too much._

"_I'm a **traitor**!" I cried out, my voice finally escaping its cage and flying across the landscape atop a crashing tsunami of grief and treachery, "I sold my family! Why do You love me? **How** can You love me? I betrayed all of you! Why-?!" I was cut off by the asphyxiating grip of tears shredding my throat as I fought to keep them in check. Aslan stood again, now settling next to me, His tail curling around my feet. _

"_Because I forgive you."_

_I burst into tears, my hands reaching out of their own accord to entangle themselves in the shower of Lion mane, my fingers anchoring themselves within the soft, flocculent, golden hair, and I struggled to hoist my self up to hug Him, but found I was too weak and overwhelmed to do so. Embarrassed of my own feeble limbs, I cried harder, wishing I had at least the strength to do as He would want me. He kissed my cheek with a rough, Lion kiss, a purr rumbling again in His throat._

"_What is wrong, my child?"_

"_I'm too weak-I can't-But I want to-! And my legs are-" I sobbed, my words garbled in watery speech. Lion's Mane, but I was a mess._

_But Aslan did not make a comment on my rather embarrassing example, and instead leaned over me, nuzzling His pink nose against the osseous, bloody forms that used to be my calves, breathing an impossibly warm breath over them, and drawing back with the tip of His nose covered in bright red smears._

"_Stand now, Son of Adam," He commanded._

_My tears paused in their tracks, and I turned my head to stare back at my legs, slowly twisting to sit up, leaning back on my palms, my feet stretched out in front of me as I leaned against the Great Cat in amazement._

_My legs were healed. Perfectly restored from their stultification without the slightest blemish residing upon them._

_I blinked, them moved hesitantly, conducting my feet to move and place themselves underneath my weight, pushing off of the Lion as I stood on wobbly legs, my eyes popping from their sockets, my mouth gaping open, practically brushing the grass four feet below. I took a step. Then another. A grin began forming on my face._

"_Walk with me," Aslan said, and started off through the camp, forcing me to jog (I had never been so thrilled that I could!) after Him. _

"_Do you know what your name is, Son of Adam?" He asked abruptly, causing me to trip a bit in surprise, before I could reattach myself to His side. _

"_It's 'Edmund', isn't it, Sir?"_

"_Do you know what it means?"_

_I shook my head._

"_In your world, the name comes from the Old ways of your people, its meaning stretching far beyond even the creation of Narnia." _

_We paused atop a smallish ledge, overlooking the camp, meeting the rising sun head-on. He turned to face me._

"'_Protector-' that is what you were named by your mother. After a king from centuries before you were even conceived."_

_I swallowed and bowed my head in shame, the same drowning feeling gripping at my chest, with icy, constricting, unbreakable claws._

"_Aslan…" _

"_Do not be consumed by grief, my Son," The Lion said sharply, "for I have already forgiven your deed. It shall now come to pass that your actions will be forgotten by me, and that you should remember only enough to never repeat them." His tone softened, "But guilt is not something the innocent feel. Do not let it trespass upon your heart's gates, dear one. It no longer belongs there."_

"_Yes, sir," I said, and rubbed the wetness from my eyes with the heel of my hand, and the tightness receded at His word, rebuked, "But why was I named that? If I was to do something so terrible? Why did I-"_

"_So that you could **fulfill** your title."_

"_My title?" I had a title?_

"_The title of Protector," He explained, "It is your charge to guard your family, and this experience lends you incentive. It gives impossible strength for you to push yourself further than anyone else ever could. Each of you has a charge, and yours is to keep the ones you love safe, by winnowing out the ones who would do them harm."_

"_I thought Peter was our Protector," I murmured, still trying to wrap my head around the entire concept._

_It made sense, in a way. Peter was the one who had kept Su and Lu safe on the way here. He had saved my own neck more times than I could count. All I had ever done was mess up what he tried to fix…_

_I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut and shaking the thought loose from my mind. _

_Not anymore._

_Aslan, meanwhile, looked at me as though He knew exactly what I was thinking, and smiled a cat-like smile._

"_In a way, but you are more so, not bearing the responsibility of the family cornerstone, you are free to move about and work without disrupting the foundation of the ties forged among you. This is something your brother could never do."_

_I experienced a thrill through my bones; I could do something Peter couldn't? Since when?!_

"_But Aslan," I said, not quite sure how to put across my explanation without invoking guiltiness, 'I couldn't even tell that the Witch, who nearly let Her servant kill me, was evil. How am I to tell when someone with far more guile wants to harm my family?"_

_He looked at me as though it was the most obvious thing in the world._

"_I will tell you."_

_Then He reached forward to kiss my eyes, administering a rough blessing upon them._

_And when I blinked my eyelids back open, I was filled with a sight that I would not fully realize until my next birthday…_

**A/N: You know those problematic anomalies we talked about? Yeah. got kinda sketch with its "Log-in"/"Submit" section. Believe me when I say that I tried at every possible opportunity to get this chapter up for you all! 0_o! Every time!**

**Did it help explain a few things to some of you? ^__^ If not, more chapters are yet to come, and I'll make sure to drop more hints at it. This chapter ALMOST escaped from me- I wanted to present how Edmund knew what was going on in the third chapter without coming right out and saying it, and it proved slightly more difficult than I thought possible. ..-__-; The ending was really rushed…**

**Peter had virtually no role at all in this chapter, so the next one should contain a good chunk of Peterly-Protectiveness and sibling bickering. I hope, at least, that you enjoyed the Ed/Orieus bonding in the beginning of it. :D Orieus is such a cool character! XD Is it any wonder that so many fics out there have him in it?**

**I'm always excited to get and read the review from you guys- it gets me inspired! I'm humbled that so many of you would respond to my story, (I know I've said it once- but I'll say it again!) and I'll work 'til I drop to make sure I supply you with a good Narnian story of brotherly love and steadfast friendship! Thank you, thank you, **_**thank you-**_** from the very bottom of my heart! :D**

**Review Guidelines: **

**If you are picky- then pick away. Anything that chips shouldn't have been there in the first place!**

**If you are expressive- express! By telling me what you think, I can craft the story to suit the audience!**

**If you hate writing lengthy reviews- TYPE A SINGLE WORD! You won't be sent reeling into the oblivion if you do. Just tap a couple of keys and write something like: 'Good.' It's totally legal! I promise!! XD**

**Next Chapter: Old Narnian, More Vocabulary, Classmate bonding, and Peter/Ed heart2heart! ^__^**

**May your week be filled with good times!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

**New Vocabulary:**

**Flocculent- like tufts of wool (**_**if you'll notice, when you say the word out-loud, it even SOUNDS like tufts of wool! XD Or maybe that's just my Word-Nerd side coming out…)**_

**Stultify- impair**

**Reticent- not revealing one's thoughts**

**Osseous- bony or like bone**


	6. Six: Premonition Explanation

**P.E**

**Chapter Six: Premonition Explanation**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: This story has been disclaimed and sentenced to a life on a fan fiction site.**

"_It is the glory of God to conceal the matter; to search out the matter is the glory of kings," Proverbs 25:2_

* * *

"_You can't do this!" the man cried, shooting up from his leather-bound chair to stand with trembling frame, every last inch of his body quivering with indignation and poorly concealed rage, "Our school is supported by many families of spectacular moral and social standing! We have _royals _who attend! Do you have any idea just what you're intending to do to this institution?!"_

"_James, the matter has nothing to do with breeding or money, and you know it."_

"_Tell me, then," the man, James, said with an impossibly quiet tone, teeth gritting together, "What exactly IS the issue that would lead you to such a ridiculous notion?"_

"_Your school has, easily, the lowest average marking in all of England. Essentially, the only reason many of your students pass is due to your hubris, alleged bribery, under-the-table deals, and," here the other man cleared his throat, "And feminine persuasion."_

"_That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!" James protested, pounding a large fist upon his desk, causing the other man to frown in distaste, "I'm an honest man! Such feats are below me!"_

"_And yet they're written all over your position."_

_James violently thrust a long finger in the face of his companion._

"_You will not close this school. You want better grades? Tell me how good and it will be done."_

"_I don't think I'm authorized to-"_

"_You're the superintendent!"_

"_There's the board to consider as well-"_

"_So consider them a moment and do what you will!"_

"_I can't just walk over them like that, James," the man said, raising his voice over the other's protests, "We have to put it to a vote. And most of them are for tearing this building down with their bare hands."_

"_Please, Fredrick," James pleaded suddenly, his face looking weary and nearly resigned, but unfathomably desperate, "Just one more chance. I'll reform this school. I know I can. Give me one more go. I know I've messed up quite a few things already, but please, for old times sake, let me try one more time to do better."_

_There was an intense moment of silence, in which the two men stared each other down._

"_You don't really deserve another chance, Jimmy," Fredrick said quietly, brow furrowed in deliberation, and James bowed his head in agreement, but returned his pleading gaze once more all the same._

"_Please, one chance."_

_Again, the two men looked at each other for a long while, the clock on the wall ticking away deafeningly in the background as the silence thickened and the static air caused an odd buzzing to fill the ears of both. Finally Fredrick picked his coat up from the chair in the corner and walked mutely towards the door, pausing only when he heard a small, despairing breath leave his cohort, and gently rested his hand on the grip of the doorknob, never turning around._

"_One chance. That's all I can give you. I suggest you start a scholarship program."_

_And he shut the door crisply behind him._

OoOoOoOoO

Of late, say, in the past three weeks, Thomas Macintosh, the middle son of the upheld Macintosh clan, leading producers of the Macintosh Encyclopedia, had developed a rather curious hobby:

Watching the Pevensie brothers.

He was not the only one to do so; this he knew for a fact. The others tended to be a little less curious than he, was all. Boys like Jay Burdock and Jeffrey Garrison would talk about the odd pair with him over lunch sometimes, or even in the safety of their dorm, when the older brother was out. They'd make loose, unconstructed comments on their peculiar behavior, wonder at their eccentricities, joke about their closeness.

Only Cain Jacobs, Thomas' best friend, comprehended the depth of mystery that constantly itched from the foreground of his mental domain.

There was something…something more than the fact that they were poor. Something…different than just the brothers being close. Something…_else._

And he became obsessed with trying to figure out what that something else was.

Even now, in their fourth class of the day (English) Thomas had a spectacular angle from which he could easily see both from their opposite seats across the room, and was avidly using it to observe them.

Edmund Pevensie, age fourteen, and currently the youngest boy in the entire grade, sat at the front of the class, his back stiff and straight, his head bowed a bit over his notes as he feverishly scribbled away at the essay they were supposed to be composing, his hand practically flying across the page, back and forth and back again, with a rapid scribble, more like a mechanical flow from a typewriter than the uneasy thought process of a teenager.

On his own paper, Thomas jotted a quick note at the topmost corner, before flicking his gaze across the rows to the older brother.

Name: Peter Pevensie. Currently voted (unanimously) the strongest seventh year, and tied with his brother for the strongest marks in all six classes the grade attended. Recently proved adept at bone setting, Thomas added, scratching another note as he grinned good-naturedly at his neighbor, Jay, whose nose was bright red, covered in a patch of swath cloth, and tied of with medical tape.

Very adept, if Hamilton's stunned silence had accounted for anything, when Peter had deftly reached forward and cracked the nose back into place within a millisecond of reaching them.

Ahead of him, Peter looked up from his own paper and Thomas could see him turn his head slightly to the left, allowing his to view a curious expression that completely covered the visible half. Confusion, concern, and slight frustration. Exasperation. The look was meant for his brother, Thomas realized, remembering the odd tension that had hung between the pair when he had run up to inform his teacher of Jay's broken nose; how Peter had been staring at Edmund in disbelief, and how Edmund had determinedly avoided his gaze. How Peter had (none too dismissively) yanked his brother over to him so that he could tell him something privately, without interception.

How Edmund had wriggled free as soon as Peter had let him, and practically ran for the chaps preparing for their new workout.

_Yes, _Thomas thought, tapping his pencil and resting his chin in his hand with his eyebrows drawn together in thought, _Something is definitely going on between them. I wonder what?_

A scrunched-up ball of paper hit him in the forehead and he started, awaking from his trance to see Cain sitting a row up, feet propped on his desk as his chair legs tilted precariously back, one eyebrow raised. He mimed opening a box, and pointed to the paper ball, which Thomas quickly uncrumpled, smoothing out the bumps and ridges to squint at the faint font that was written diagonally across the straight lines.

'_In the time it takes for you to become obsessed with two, bombastic prisses, you could have finished the essay due in five minutes and counting.'_

Thomas crumpled the paper back up and chucked it at his head.

'_Helpful_,' Thomas mouthed sarcastically, '_Very supportive_.'

Cain saluted him and settled back into his chair, resuming the nap he had been taking, after he had (at the very least) finished the first paragraph of said essay. An excellent attempt, for Cain anyway.

OoOoOoOoO

"Ed?" Peter asked, practically cornering me in the hall as I escaped the last class of the day- Art history- and his weight constantly shifting as he fidgeted on his feet, "Can we talk now? In your room?"

Part of me was tempted to slip my way out of the confrontation, blow off the conversation that I knew would have to occur sooner or later, talk him out of his worry. Find _some_ escape route in which to find security.

But I know my brother. And I know what states of panic he can drive himself to.

And so I merely nodded tiredly, hitched my bag farther over my shoulder, and led the way down the halls, Peter striding neatly along beside me, matching my step perfectly as we progressed to my private dorm. We reached the door leading up the stairs to my room, and he held the door open for me, causing me to shoot him a look, and him to smirk ever so slightly at my discomfort.

"After you," he said, and waved at the stairs. I conveniently smacked him in the face with my bag as I ascended, jerking my pack higher with a little too much vibrancy, and causing it to jostle his head as if perfectly aimed.

"Thanks," I said dryly, and started up, hearing my brother click the door shut behind him as he joined me, and I kicked open the door to my room, flinging my things onto the floor as I stretched out the kinks in my neck.

Again, Peter was left to close the door, and he settled his own books neatly in the corner, sitting on my bed with careful, thoughtful movements, as though deliberating on how to start the dreaded topic. For my part, I attempted to act as natural as possible, and yawned widely, stretching every which-way to loosen my frozen muscles.

"Who knew school books could weigh so much, eh?" I asked, my back to my brother as I opened the door to my wardrobe and shuffled about for clean, un-uniform-like clothing, "If the companies that made them existed in Narnia, I'm fairly certain Oreius would have subscribed. Though not for the text."

"Do you know who reminds me of Oreius?" Peter asked suddenly, surprising me with the genuine levity in his tone, "Mr. Hamilton."

I paused in my search for comfortable clothes and turned to see my brother's grinning face, his eyes happy and amused, his face practically splitting with it's smile.

"Oreius? Mr. Hamilton?" I repeated incredulously, and as soon as I said it, a conspicuously vivid image of Oreius strutting about with a rotund stomach, bifocals, and thinning hair took my mind by storm, causing me to clap a hand over my mouth in surprise, as an odd, garbled noise escaped past my usually guarded lips. Peter sat up on the bed as looked at me in amazement.

"What was that?"

Something about his face or tone struck me as hilarious, and the peculiar noise shot out of my mouth again, this time causing my entire frame to tremble as I uselessly tried to contain it and making my eyes water violently.

"Was that a _giggle?_" Peter asked, beginning to laugh.

And it was too much.

Helpless to resist, I succumbed to the odd bubbling glee that swelled in my abdomen and echoed about in my throat, flying out and then returning to regroup and be expelled yet again. Eventually I collapsed on the bed next to Peter and continued to laugh, my eyes squinted shut, tears leaking out of their edges, my arms wrapped around my middle, my facial muscles beginning to ache, unfamiliar with the odd task they were attempting to perform. Peter had finished long before I, and watched me lie there, completely defenseless, for what felt like hours. At first, his gaze held nothing but amusement. But after at least five consecutive minutes of purely wild mirth, concern began spreading across his features.

"Ed? Are you all right?"

But not _all_ of me was right, and this thought alone sent me into another round of feverish cackling, the spasming of my diaphragm ultimately causing me to cough alternatively with every other bark of laughter, and the tears of mirth to change to mere tears of exhaustion and defeat.

"Are you- Oh, Ed," Peter said worriedly, reaching down to help ease me up to slump against his side, where I continued to shake with somewhat painful hysterics. Peter smoothed my hair and kissed my temple tenderly, wrapping his long arms around me, gently rocking a bit as he softly hushed me, burying his face in my thicket of curls, and as I immersed myself as fully into his hug as I could, battling to bay my emotions before they fully exploded, allowing only a small leak to escape into my trembling and inhuman chuckling.

"_Denae mo Provis. Cornar lai pronael traejen photis, _[Hush, my brother. I will guard your steps,]" Peter murmured, rubbing my arm a bit as he sank his face deeper into my hair, pressing a kiss there to seal his promise.

"_Traej en ne proneal photi blo an san pranae du kans drae minas, _[ You can/shall/may not guard the-steps of one who falters by his own faults,]" I muttered bitterly, in my exhaustion only capable of weak hiccups, and my stomach churned angrily, causing me to flinch against my brother's side. I could feel him frown into the crown of my head.

"'Can not' or 'May not'?" he asked in English, stilling in his movements, "And what faults would these be?"

I shook my head into his chest and attempted to bury myself in his scent, feeling worn and weak, not wanting to speak and only to be bolstered by his magnificent, golden light. A light that never left him. A light I hoped would _never_ leave him.

But Peter was not satisfied by my silence and promptly drew back, holding me by the shoulders even as I let that mere grip keep me from falling over, and lowered my head onto my chest, slightly ashamed. Peter shook me a bit, though carefully, and with no where near the amount of force I knew was hidden in his deceptively boyish arms.

"Ed, what's going on?" he demanded, "Surely you're not this strung-out about joining a team of little boys? You don't like team effort anyway; I can hardly get you to work with _me_ on most things. And you knew about the injury rate of the team, but didn't bother to tell me. You're more worried about getting to class on time than I've ever seen you. And-"

"I get it," I said wearily, wishing I could just collapse back onto his shoulder, "you pay an obsessively close eye to my well-being."

"And I'll _continue_ to," Peter said fiercely, giving me another shake before pulling me flush into his hold again, "Which is why I need to know what's been bothering you lately. Whatever it is, it's wearing you out." He brushed the hair from my forehead and said in a softer tone, "I hate seeing you like this."

"When have you ever seen me like this?"

"Well," Peter began, unknowingly about to answer his own question, as he stroked my hair thoughtfully, "usually it was before someone tried to-" His voice suddenly cut off, and he froze, exactly what he intended to say fully dawning on him. Slowly, he separated us once more, looking at me with wide eyes. I looked back at him, managing a small quirk of my lips, even as my eyelids worked to fall shut.

"You mean- You're ability to tell that- You still have-?" he stuttered, then, "_How_?"

"It's not as strong as it was in Narnia," I slurred, feeling more and more tired the longer I sat there, "There, it was a soft voice, a sense of urgency, and I'd just _know_ what they were trying to do to the three of you. Here…" I felt Peter shake my shoulder and I realized I had dozed off in mid-speech.

"And here?" he pressed, drawing me closer, patting the side of my face to wake me further into conciousness.

"Here," I said, frowning at the light, yet annoying, contact, "I get ill."

"Ill? As in influenza? A cold?" my brother sounded panicked at the idea, "But you've gotten ill a couple of times already and no one has tried to assassinate us…"

"Not sick-ill. More like," I struggled against my cottony thoughts to combine a comprehensible sentence, "Like head-ache. Stomach-ache. Heart-ache. Everything aches. Like everything in me is-" I cut that verbal thought off, knowing Peter wouldn't like it if I confessed that when someone was trying to harm my family I felt like everything inside of me was trying to tear itself apart in an effort to save them. Like I was dying every moment one of them was in danger, and there was nothing I could do to help. A burning, torrid, and febrile desire to assist, to be of use, to be a protector.

Thinking I had fallen back to sleep, Peter patted my cheek again.

"Like everything in me is… upset," I emended.

"So, do you think it's one of the students?"

"Who?"

"The one who wants to…" Peter looked for the right wording, "…To harm us?"

I shook my head.

"I have no idea of whether it's meant for you, or for the girls."

_Unless intensity signals closeness_…I thought wryly.

Peter frowned again, "You can't tell when someone means to harm you?"

I snorted with dark humor, "Hardly. My big brother had his own sixth sense in such events."

"Well, that would explain a lot," Peter muttered, "Like why I've felt so stressed of late. Oh, wait," he said, tone completely sarcastic, "That was because of a certain little brother intent on keeping things like this to himself. Clearly not good for his health."

"Yeah, yeah," I said, though a smile was blooming on my lips even as I spoke into the collar of his sweater, "'Cause telling said older brother information like that doesn't add onto his initial burdens."

"I'd rather know what I was carrying," murmured Peter, as he held me under his chin, "Than try to help you carry something only you can see." And he wrapped me in the blanketing warmth of his arms, the gentle lull of his breathing pulling me deeper into taunting sleep, and a loving kiss planted on my forehead as my dreams encompassed the golden face that swam before me, covering him in rich golds and blues, a magnificent headdress sweeping up from his brow towards the clear sky.

But he would have to suffer in carrying unknown burdens for a while longer, if I had my say. Maybe even for the rest of our lives.

Granted we were allowed that.

* * *

**A/N: I only spent a few hours typing this, so there are probably a few more mistakes than I would like, but something came up, and I no longer have tomorrow to proof-read. Sorry about that. I still wanted to get this up before the weekend was finished. ^__^**

**Who were the men in the beginning? How will Macintosh's involvement develop? What is Jacob's deal? What are the other burdens Edmund would have Peter carry, and who's trying to harm them in the first place? All will be revealed in progressive chapters! XD**

**My usual review policies apply here too! If you don't like typing lengthy monologues, have at the one-word listing method. Saves time, money, and effort! XD It's PERFECTLY OKAY to not write for extended periods of time in one go. One word. Uno. Example: "Good." Got it? :D**

**Here's in hopes of a snow day!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

**New Vocabulary:**

**Hubris- arrogant pride**

**Febrile- of a fever**

**Bombastic- using pompous words**

**Torrid- intensely hot**

**Old Narnian Explanation:**

The Old Narnian word, "en" has several meanings. It can mean either "can" "may" or "shall." Peter asked Edmund to clarify it's meaning for him here, because it could easily mean that either Peter was incapable of helping Edmund, or that Edmund would not allow him to. What Peter doesn't realize, however, is that Edmunds' translation of it means both.


	7. Seven: Power Entrusted

**P.E**

**Chapter Seven: Power Entrusted**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: *insert repartee here***

* * *

"_It is God who arms me with strength, and makes my way perfect," Psalm 18:32_

* * *

When screams rent through the blissfully slumbering halls, there was little that the students could do to ignore them.

Terrified, piercing, unending, animalistic, the adolescents began to feel the first trickles of despair and desperation to protect themselves from- from _whatever_ was causing such horror within one of their classmates. Indeed, the sounds were so awful, that a few burst into inconsolable tears and began to whimper as if being attacked, further frightening the ones that huddled so unsure next to them.

Eventually, a braver teacher was sent with a torch to investigate to source, and they crept cautiously through the pitch of night, the hairs on the back of their necks standing up straight at every other creak or whispering noise that was brought to the foreground of their minds by the terrible wailing. It was as though some devil or agitated spirit had been summoned by the constant stream of unearthly keens, and was determined to do what spite it could before the person screaming was comforted. Dark shadows seemed to chase his movements, malicious intent clear in the slinking hunch, distorted limbs and irregular bending.

Like nightmares come to life.

Luckily, the teacher spotted a forming crowd of scared-witless and obsessively curious students forming before the doorway of one of the dorms (Pevensie's dorm, he remembered vaguely), and the possessed cries grew more frantic in their tone as the teacher broke through the crowd.

"What on earth is going on h-"

Promptly, they were cut off by the figure of the wailer's older sibling, who practically flew through the crowd and knocked the instructor clear out of the way in their effort to reach them. They crossed the room in a single bound and picked up the struggling form of the younger Pevensie, rocking them back and forth with gentle crooning, tenderly stroking their sweaty hair out of their face.

"I'm here. Hush, now. I'm not going anywhere. I've have you. Please wake up…"

The dazed teacher managed to recollect himself and stood awkwardly in the doorframe, wondering whether to berate the older for practically assaulting an institutional instructor, or to praise them for doing what so many others apparently could not: stopping the barbaric howling.

Upon receiving a rather accusatory, fierce, and dangerous gleam from a pair of disturbingly blue eyes, however, the teacher was prompted to shut his mouth and herd the others from the room, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up once more, in the full light and warmth of the dorm room.

It was not until the door clicked shut that the figures stirred and relaxed against each other, the older continually petting the soft, trembling head of the other.

"Was it a bad dream?" murmured softly.

The slight figure they held shuddered and nodded weakly.

"At first, I thought it was about _Her._ But then…it changed."

"How so?"

"I…I think it was- I think Aslan gave me…a prophecy."

Turning her head, Lucy Pevensie blinked wearily up at the eyes of her older sister, which were widened in wonder and disbelief, and she extracted herself from the embrace to rock backwards and appraise the sincerity of her younger sister in utter amazement.

"You…You haven't dreamt of the future since-" Somehow, she simply couldn't bring herself to save the name of her true home, and settled for tucking a loose, damp strand of strawberry red hair behind Lucy's ear. "Are you sure you weren't just dreaming, Lu?"

Lucy brought forth a tremulous smile, and said in an exhausted, raspy cadence;

"We'll know soon enough."

Strangely, Susan found this brief statement far more frightening than the continuous, heart-piercing wails, and she felt an uncontainable shiver slide down her spine with icy, creeping fingers.

"What do you mean?"

The sea-green eyes of the Valiant Queen clashed a moment with the pure, crystalline blue of the Gentle's, and a measure of solemnity that should never be so easily registered on the face of one so young managed to settle itself comfortably upon the delicately carved features of her little sister.

"Peter and Edmund need us."

OoOoOoOoO

_It had been exactly one week since Helen Pevensie had collected her four, marvelous treasures from the train station and carted them back into their Finchley home, where their presence seemed to instantly bring the small, dark house to life, and where she had begun to recognize the first signs of change._

_One week, and these changes began to appear more and more permanent, and less and less provisional._

_One week, and Mrs. Pevensie was wondering if she had brought home the right children._

"_Mum, do you need anything done?"_

"_Mum, have you seen the cleaning cloths? I think this house could stand to be dusted."_

"_I could go to the market for you, if you like."_

"_You look tired, Mum, would you like a cup of rosemary tea?"_

_Within one week, it became clear to Helen Pevensie that her children no longer needed to be told what to do; under their careful observation, the house practically ran itself. Not a day went by that she hadn't found at least one of them tidying their regions of the home with a keen eye, or that the hours could pass without so much as the slightest of sibling bickering._

_It was disturbing, for a woman who had spent the last twelve years settling such events._

_A light tap upon the wooden entryway pulled her from her thoughts to see her oldest, Peter, smiling slightly at his mother from the hall, his posture relaxed enough so that he allowed one leg to bend just a bit underneath him, his upper frame barely leaning against the door. Behind him, Helen could just see the sooty hair of Edmund, who was wrapped in a light jacket, hands in pockets, shifting as he waited for his big brother to make the first move._

"_Mum?" Peter asked softly, "Me and Ed are going down to the market for a bit. We should be back in a few hours."_

"'_Hours'?" Helen frowned, wondering what on earth could take so long. "What about dinner? It's almost three o'clock as it is." Provided, she finished her taxes by the time dinner came around…_

_Peter looked to Edmund, who visibly straightened, as though Peter had spoken aloud to him, and turned his dark gaze to his mother._

"_We should be back by then," he said, and Peter nodded at him in a reassuring manner, before her younger son fell silent once more, retreating into the shadows of the hall._

"_Please mum," Peter pressed gently, looking more like a parent convincing his child to eat peas than a son asking for permission to go out, "we're only checking in on something. I can bring an umbrella in case it rains."_

"_There's not a cloud in the sky and virtually no wind," Edmund muttered from Peter's back, causing his older brother to tinge pink._

"_I said, '_In case'_, Eddie," Peter grumbled, "And you can never really tell."_

_Edmund snorted, but had the grace to allow his brother to continue without further interruption._

"_Just to the market, Mum. We'll come straight home. I promise."_

_So honest. So straightforward. That was her Peter. Before they had left for the country, Helen distinctly remembered how Peter gave his word sparingly, not wanting to disappoint his parents should he have failed to come through for them. Now it was given without ease, though not without retaining that essence of careful consideration of his actions. In Edmund, as well, she sensed this inner battle of right versus wrong. Of acts and consequences._

_She deliberated a moment, watching the faces of her sons for-_

_-For what?_

_What did she expect to see (or, rather, not see) if she were to gaze at their flexing, maturing facial structure, their youthful, but oddly mature countenances, their eyes, their utter calm? _

_Would she see her children? Or a childish mask encasing the face of a complete stranger?_

"_Mum?" _

_Edmund's eyes never left her face, neither smile nor frown fully claiming rights to his pursed lips, but worry seemed to be making an effort in creeping across his brow, puckering his eyebrows together to form a jet black "V" between his eyes._

"_What's the matter?" he asked her, and she silently observed the mutually mute communication that passed from brother to brother, each picking up on the other's thoughts with as little effort as breathing._

_It was when Peter reached out in a surprisingly maternal gesture to feel the temperature of her forehead that she finally started and smiled at him, catching his smooth hand in her own, aging ones._

"_My dear boys," she murmured with quiet pride, unexplainable joy welling in her, "My wonderful children. You do know how proud I am of you, don't you, my darlings?"_

_Edmund squirmed uncomfortably in the hall and Peter's eyes widened in surprise. _

_It was obvious that neither of her boys had heard that fact in a while, and she held out her arms to wrap the golden Peter in her arms, kissing him once on his cheek, and then releasing him (he was flushed with embarrassment by the time she had done so) she motioned for Edmund to approach her so that she could do the same for him._

"_**Mum**__," Ed said, sounding scandalized at such a decadent act. Peter went to stand next to him, rubbing awkwardly at the slight kiss mark from Helen's red lipstick._

"_Oh, really, dear. I don't bite," she said, a grin upturning the edges of her lips._

"_Go on Ed," Peter advised, still scrubbing with vigor at the stubborn mark, "I won't go around telling people. Lion knows you have enough dirt on me," he finished in a dejected mutter, and Edmund shot him a glare, stepping towards his fate with a wicked gleam of canines,_

"_And don't you forget it."_

"_Wish I could…"he sighed as Edmund submitted his cheek to be kissed, before he quickly withdrew to the safety of the hallway, matching his brother in the ferocity of his scrubbing._

"_Be back before six, is all I ask, Peter," Mrs. Pevensie relented, going back to the safety of her taxes, "And don't get into trouble." _

"_I'll make sure Ed doesn't start a brawl," he said, teasingly shoving his brother in the shoulder so that he bumped him into the wall._

"_And I'll try to make certain that Peter doesn't get lost on the way to the mailbox," Edmund retorted, flicking his big brother on the back of his head with a practiced snap of his etiolated fingers, "Though I can't make any promises."_

_Just when she had thought her children were incapable of petty bickering…_

_Peter swung lightly at the dark head of Edmund, who nimbly ducked under his outstretched arm and dodged out of the door, a brief bark of laughter echoing into the hall before Peter let out a responding whoop and slammed the door shut on his way out, pumping his long legs to give chase to the swift path of his younger sibling._

_Wincing slightly at the loud "bang" that shook the remainder of the house as the front door was slammed roughly shut, Mrs. Helen Pevensie still managed a small smile over the top of her paperwork, and found herself wondering, with intense curiosity, what the next week would bring…_

OoOoOoOoO

The air was heavy and stagnant, the acrid smell of rotting blood filling not only my head, but my nose and mouth as well. I've heard soldiers use the phrase "crave their enemies' blood," before I was crowned High King. However, until Narnia had begun her participation in the fierce battles with pariah ogres over the North-West border, I had never had a clue of how such a feat was possible.

But I now tasted ogre blood on my tongue. And I derived a frighteningly primal satisfaction in doing so.

With a mighty yell, I swung Rhindon into the unprotected neck of my enemy, cleanly severing its malicious thoughts and intentions from a body that would carry them out. He fell without so much as a gurgle, and I immediately lit onto the next one, an odd fire of power and fearlessness in almost complete control of me. In movement, I knew I lived. In stilling, even for a second, I was as good as dead.

An ogre bearing the crest of their chieftain reared up in front of me, and I, possessed by combat, unleashed the untamed edge of my blade, slashing and cutting and feinting with unparalleled energy, just wanting one thing. Only thinking one thing:

'_Lop his head off!'_

It should have been easier than he made it; I would have had no problem with taking him down the moment I saw him.

Ogres never fight fair.

"This tiny child is all that defends the ancient border?" he asked himself with a wet, grating laugh, his scimitar narrowly avoiding taking claim of more than a wisp of my hair, and I leapt backwards, slowly approaching his sword once more, "This babe is the great shield of the magic lands?"

'_Her Sword and Shield…'_

_Ed._

Panic, an emotion Oreius had presumed to either draw out or beat out of us during his training sessions, came to a full head, and almost cost me my life, for the ogre did not wait for my reply but, rather, swung his weapon with all the gravitation of a pendulum, and the blow nearly took my frozen arm, which held my own sword mindlessly in front of me. I awoke just in time, withdrawing my forearms from his range, before ducking under his exposed armpit, and severing the limb. Then, not paying attention to the agonizing roar that bled my ears with its sudden explosion of sound, I took his head as well, redirecting my attention to the field.

Even by a quick glance, it was clear that the Narnians would be claiming a victory for this battle.

Oreius and the remainder of the guard encircled a small unit of the monsters, who taunted the Narnians unto their death, sneers still contorting their faces when the Swooping Emissary claimed their lives. Our soldiers were chasing down a few ogres that changed their mind about confrontation and attempted to flee, finding mercy only in a quick death by an arrow lodged firmly between their ears. The ogres' _coup de grace._

But of all the things I could see, my eyes did not, _could not_, find my only brother, who had ridden so steadfastly into battle with me that morning.

'_Don't panic…'_

My veins still pulsed with life and epinephrine, with clinging hope and churning terror. I turned as Oreius cantered up to me.

"General!" I cried, and he gripped my upper arms as he pulled to a stop, appraising me diligently with his stern eyes.

"King Peter, you are not injured?"

"I'm fine. Where's Ed?"

In the sudden and terrible silence that followed, the full weight of what it could mean to not find my brother on the battlefield after a hard-fought melee hit me full force, and that strangling panic gripped me again, causing me to raise my voice high above the voices of my subjects;

"Edmund! My brother- has anyone seen him?"

"No, my liege," answered one faun, looking about himself uneasily, and others followed suit.

"Break up and search for him!" I yelled, flipping back my visor and sheathing my sword, "He must be here! Leave no stone unturned!"

Jumping down from the slight ledge I had been standing on, I gazed out over the rocky landscape with quickly depleting calmness, and moved out to begin checking beneath every nook and cranny of the scrabbled ground, soon accompanied by my General, whose presence was an immense security to my mind, even as I felt on the verge of breaking down and screaming aloud for my brother at the top of my lungs.

'_But what would you do_,' asked a voice that sounded suspiciously like the little brother in question, _'If someone heard you that oughtn't?'_

I breathed in deeply through my nose, attempting to steady myself. It made sense, after all. What if a hidden ogre heard my desperate cries for my sibling, and took it upon themselves to find him first?

A dark, heavy hand rested warmly on my shoulder.

"We will find your brother, King Peter;" Oreius said squarely, "For Aslan will not soon abandon him, nor any of Your Majesties. Ask Him for guidance, my liege. On my honor, I swear we will find him alive."

"Thank you, General," I said, and squeezed the large hand with my gauntleted one, throwing my gaze back onto the landscape, straining, tensing, waiting….

'_Aslan,_' my soul cried out, fear wringing its contents to the foreground of my mind, '_Protect what brother I have. Protect him. Keep him guarded even when I cannot…'_

A cry went up across the land, and I spotted a gryphon circling high above, letting out a shriek of joy in response to the cry from amongst the craggy rocks. He whirled once more before banking his wings and swooping down to flutter next to me. Panting, the scout bowed low in respect.

"My liege, your brother is found alive."

I could have kissed him.

"S-Status?" my voice croaked, cracking at an overwhelming and nascent crush of thanksgivings that were stemmed from my prayers being answered on such swift wings.

He bowed his head.

"Alive, my liege, but in dire need of assistance."

* * *

**A/N: ****Though some of these scenes may appear to be superfluous, I can assure you that they are all perfectly necessary. ^__^ **

**So Lucy is having dreams of the future, their mother received a brief portion of the chapter, and the end was tying in another story I've written (Mawkish Melee) into the fray of P.E! They all point to one, key idea. **

**My apologies for taking so long to update, the next chapter should be up on the regular schedule.**

**For those who dislike writing screeds- I accept short, one-worded reviews. "Good" "Bad" or "Okay" are all perfect examples of this method. My thanks to all who have reviewed thus far, and may your weekends be relaxing!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

**New Vocabulary:**

**Pariah- outcast**

**Nascent- just coming into existence**

**Decadent- moral deterioration (corrupt, immoral, etc)**

**Coup de grace- finishing stroke (koo day grahss)**

**Screed- tiresomely long letter**


	8. Eight: Paroxysm Expedited

**P.E**

**Chapter Eight: Paroxysm Expedited**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Narnia, because, if I did, I wouldn't be writing fan fictions about it; I'd be out there finishing the next movie or writing another book.**

"_A King's rage is like the roar of a lion, but his favor is like dew on the grass," Proverbs 19:12_

"_My liege, your brother is found alive."_

_I could have kissed him._

"_S-Status?" my voice croaked, cracking at an overwhelming and nascent crush of thanksgivings that were stemmed from my prayers being answered on such swift wings._

_He bowed his head._

"_Alive, my Liege, but in dire need of assistance."_

**OoOoOoOoO**

I had expected as much. Yet, no matter what I had foolishly hoped in the more childish portion of my mind, that simple statement had wrought an entirely new thrashing wave of panic to settle ominously around my heart. A cold, metallic ring. My chest felt tight, and it heaved convulsively beneath my battle-warmed armor; the concentration of fear, power, epinephrine, and rage caused all else of me to quiver violently. Rhindon rattled expressively against my chain-mailed hips as my hands shook uncontrollably from raw energy, each connection with the edge of my knee braces causing an odd, other-worldly hum.

Standing abreast of me, the General shot me a wary look, and quickly spoke to the scout what I could not.

"How far, Ethonai?"

"Not far," the scout said reassuringly and added, "We posted a small squad of five with His Majesty, until you reached him, King Peter, but we must see to his removal from the field as soon as possible."

"Then take us to him," I fairly barked out, an irrational edge causing me to wonder why we were standing around _talking_ when I could be with my brother; when I could be _helping_ him.

Ethonai bowed and then reared up on his hind legs, sweeping down once with his powerful wings to catch the swirling updraft of summer wind, flapping once or twice more as he sailed a little ways ahead. Oreius reached down to me, so that I gripped his forearm and he mine, and the Centaur hefted me up and onto his back, immediately galloping off at full speed behind the shadow of our Gryphon.

Neither the General nor I spoke to one another during that short race across the field. In truth, it could not have been more than a full minute before we reached our destination. But, to me, it felt that the General was going slowly on purpose.

I wanted to be with my brother _right then._

We finally cleared an outcropping of rain-smoothed stones when we came face-to-face with the afore mentioned squad. Five sure and hardy soldiers from Edmund's personal guard that were evenly spaced about him in a warrior's crouch, ready to defend him from the slightest potential danger that crept from the rocks. One positioned himself directly next to my little brother, a hand rested on his forehead (the Narnian method for tabbing one's pulse) and his head turned, eyes focused on me as the General and I came roaring up in front of them.

I leaped from my instructor's back before we'd stopped, and flung myself at the still form of my baby brother, brushing away the guard's hand with my own, smoothing his hair from his forehead in all-consuming worry. My eyes did not miss the stark contrast between my skin tone and his- the pale marble that made the flesh on my hand look like the tanned pigment of a Tashbaan merchant. My brother, disturbingly white from blood loss and shock, looked more like a charcoal drawing than a human being; the young, dear face serving as an unblemished canvas to the dark lashes and sweat-slicked brow.

"Ed?" I whispered, and brushed the bangs from his face again, "Hey, Ed?"

Oreius turned on the guards.

"Injuries?"

A Faun came forward, back straight, "Sir! King Edmund has lost blood from a deep cut to his right leg, we suspect a blow to His Majesty's head may have left him concussed, and his left shoulder is dislocated."

"Only dislocated?" Oreius demanded, his voice low as he gestured to the twisted, elongated limb that was awkwardly bent out from Edmund's small shoulder.

"Telnir," the Faun who had stepped forward nodded to another Faun standing at attention, "believes that the tendons in the same arm have been fully separated from the bone, which makes it makes it difficult to re-set the bone without further harming the King."

"And on top of his condition, General," I heard Telnir add respectfully, "Lieutenant Granr has informed us of a renegade Ogre who has reached the Blood Rage, and may soon pick up on the scent of His Majesty," meaning the scent of the red pool lurking beneath Edmund, "We must remove him from the area swiftly if he is to survive."

The group visited a tense silence, and and every one of us wishing for Lucy and her Cordial. But my sister was a full two days from us on Horse back. Perhaps one and a half days by flight.

While the soldiers spoke in rushed, urgent voices, I had shifted slightly closer to my little brother and began stroking his cheek, feeling warmed as a small patch of color began to form there from the stimulation. Smiling a bit, I turned to his arm and looked at where the guards had torn his shirt and hauberk back, revealing a purple and black gallimaufry of bruises . Something odd stirred in me and I leaned closer, realizing that the marks forming five long, thick contusions in angry, welting bands across his biceps were not from the blows of a club, as I originally thought-

They were hand prints.

An _Ogre_ had used his _bare hands_ to twist my siblings' limb in such a grotesque manner.

I nearly cried out at my discovery, but bit my lip harshly instead, enough to draw a dribble of boiling blood. I knew that such an act could not have been quick or painless. And, especially knowing the race of Ogres, it was likely that the sadistic creature had drawn out the fun for as long as my little brother was incapable of fighting back:

I hoped that Edmund had gotten a good strike in for his sake, if not for my own.

Something wet and cold touched my hand suddenly and I yelped aloud in surprise, my free hand flying to my hip for Rhindon, ready to fight off anything from my Edmund's presence.

But as I looked down, I felt instantly subdued.

Edmund's eyes, though dulled with agony and slightly unfocused, seemed to find my face easily enough, and rested there, staring up at me with a warm brown gaze, and the farthest corner of his lips weakly twitching upwards. A small squeeze on my knuckles and I realized that the object touching my hand was _his_ hand, cooled from the small amount working through his veins and slick with the amount working out of them. Injured though he was, Edmund continued to look out for me, and, even in his own incapacitation, was attempting to bay my discomfort.

I swiftly released Rhindon's hilt and gripped the smallish hand, not caring when it squelched sickeningly within my hold, and even brought it to my lips, kissing the fingertips reverently.

"You've fought well, my King," I said encouragingly, and managed a smile for him, though tears began to prick uncomfortably at the edges of my eyes.

Ed's face seemed to soften, then contort as he shut his eyes in a flash of pain, a small, miserable keen stretching its way from between his tightly-pressed lips.

"Shhh," I hushed, my voice cracking a bit, and swallowed, 'It's gonna be okay, Ed. Hush, now. You're gonna be-"

Edmund cut me off, his grip on my hand becoming painfully expressive of his inner turmoil. His mouth trembled.

"Oreius…" it came out past my blood-stained lips as a slight whisper, much alike to a bad dream that steals your voice from summoning assistance at the most crucial of times, and I mentally slapped myself at my weakness, drawing power from the life that was wrapped dependently about my fingers.

"_OREIUS!_"

I could have sworn the General had jumped at my much unexpected bellow, but he answered me quickly enough, rushing to my side with concern covering his being.

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

"Help him!" I cried desperately, feeling as young and as lost as I had so few years before, when my same friend had been lying so helplessly on the battlefield, his blood flowing too freely, and his breathing too stilted.

I wanted my brother healed _right then_!

Oreius knelt beside us at my irrational command, knowing naught of medicine, but plenty of the torture of battle wounds, and eased the same flap of hauberk from Edmund's arm, glancing over the injury with experienced eyes, his mouth knitting a grim line as he worked.

I squeezed Ed's hand as it rested in my lap, attempting to keep it level with his torso so that his body wouldn't work as hard to push blood at such a steep angle to my lips, and occasionally reached forward to smooth his hair gently, particularly when another wave of agony would sweep through him, leaving him tiny and trembling in its wake.

"He should live," Oreius said finally, "and be more fit than ever, by the time Her Majesty has given him her cordial. However," he added, voice flattening with regret, "we must set the shoulder bone before we move him."

"But sir!" The first Faun exclaimed, eyes wide, "The muscles in his shoulder are-!"

"His Majesty has neither the time nor the constitution to continue with such an injury bearing down upon him," the General snapped, eyes aflame with a protective glare, "King though he may be, his body is a _child_, and children can not walk about as freely with a dislodged limb as some adults think they can," he snorted and shook his head, but was bereft of the power to stomp his hoof, seeing as he still knelt next to my brother and I. His tail, however, managed to agitatedly swish for the duration of the argument.

"What do you want us to do, sir?" asked another guard, a Boar, softly. My teacher set his jaw and looked back down at my brother with an expression I did not like.

"This will hurt…"he warned, and Edmund's eyes flashed open just in time to see Oreius' large hand fly down and strike his temple with pinpoint accuracy. Ed's eyes rolled easily back into his skull, and his entire body went utterly limp, his slick hand slipping from my own.

I screamed, thoroughly startled, and that same fear that had banded my heart in a steel grip returned with a vengeance, causing me to attempt to lift my brother and run away from my general's apologetic eyes. Logic, it seemed, had turned in on itself, and all I could see was the limp form of Edmund: lax, pale, and spent. I jerkily hoisted him into my chest and pushed away from the guards, pressure building in the back of my head, confusion reigning in my mind.

"Why did you do that?" I asked, teeth gritted together, and hand itching to draw my sword even as I found the sanity to resist. This was, after all, the Centaur who had been one of my key advisers for the past few years.

_But so had Edmund!_ The panicky voice shrilly squealed at me from a dark corner of my mind, causing me to tighten my arms farther around my brother.

"Peter," Oreius said my name in a tone that brooked no argument, and brought me back to my sense with their calm, resounding syllables, "Your brother would have been in a great deal of pain if I had allowed him to remain awake for the setting of his shoulder, and I regret that no such herb exists that could render him unconscious so efficiently. Now- If you will _not_ allow me to realign Edmund's bone, then I'm afraid the enemy will be upon us soon, with your brother in the midst of the fray. You must let me see your brother if he is to live; _Do you understand_?"

Ah, logic. What sense it made- what senses it gave back. Throughout his speech I felt a flush through my blood like starved fire, clearing wayward cobwebs from my mind by their heat. My General was loyal. _Where was my head?_

I lowered my eyes and loosed my hold, allowing my brother's face to loll out from the crux of my neck, and gently settled him back on the ground before my instructor, feeling ashamed for my outburst.

Oreius, however, paid no such attention to my embarrassment, but simply reached out to my brother, took a firm and steady grip on his elbow, slid the other massive hand slightly behind his back, braced his face, and guided the bone forward.

_CRUNCH._

I swallowed a measure of bile that had leapt up my throat and rubbed at my eyes with a trembling hand, shaking myself slightly to withdraw my mind from its stunned condition.

Edmund didn't have _time _for this. We had to evacuate the field quickly. How much time had passed since we had found my brother?

"Oreius?" I asked, my voice was a bare whisper again, though now because I feared something besides sound would find its way out of my mouth, "Could you carry him? We have to move out."

"Of course, my liege." Oreius said kindly, and scooped Edmund into his brawny arms with ridiculous ease.

"Then let's go," I turned to the guards, "Did one of you say something about an Ogre, good cousins?"

"I did, sire," the first Faun said, "Our scout, Lieutenant Granr, said he had spotted one in a Blood Rage a ways off."

_Blast_.

"And when will the scout make another report…er…?" I realized that I had never quite caught the name of my soldier, and felt another rush of embarrassment.

He smiled a tad in understanding.

"Fothan, sire."

"Fothan," I rubbed at my face again, feeling the blood in my veins begin to rush about in agitation, a strange feeling causing me to sweat a bit around the collar. One never gets used to battle, I suppose.

"When does the next report come in, Fothan?"

He glanced at Telnir, who looked back with furrowed brow.

"He should be back any moment, my Lord."

Their hesitation was not all that encouraging.

Suddenly, simultaneously, I caught a look of surprise register on the Generals' face as Edmund's eyes flashed open, his body twisting so that he faced towards me, one hand flying out in search of me, fingers straining to reach me, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up, my body automatically ducking just as my brother's voice screamed out, "_PETER!_"

And a massive club soared straight through the air where my head had been, my eyes barely taking note of the bumpy, knobby, wooden instrument before an enraged cry filled my ears and literally shook the ground beneath me.

I whirled on my heels within my crouch and my head tipped back to take in the terrifying sight of a twenty-foot Ogre, his eyes naught but inflamed red, a trait that Ogres passed down that allowed the blood vessels in their eyes to swell sideways over the pupil and whites, creating a red sort of lens over their eye. Such a trait could be enacted via two methods:

The first was in the event of it being mating season, which was unlikely, as it was Summer, not Winter.

The second method was in the event of a Blood Rage.

I ducked again and scrabbled backwards as he came at me, club waving about wildly. Fothan and Telnir came to my aid, bravely wielding their shorter swords in the face of such an insane danger. Telnir actually made a good swipe at the major artery that resided in an Ogre's forearm, and the monstrosity staggered back for a moment, causing the Faun to give a cheer in victory, raising his sword above his head.

"DON'T-!" Oreius cried out, but it was too late, the maddened Ogre, supplied with yet more blood to drive him further into his rage, seemed to forget completely about the injury, and roared forward, one sweep of his club colliding with the softer skull of the Faun, and flinging him across the rocks an awing twenty meters.

He was dead before he came to a full stop.

The Ogre turned on the General, its beady eyes focused solely on the wide eyes of Edmund, licking its chops with bloody, gruesome, lopsided fangs, its despicable mien stretching corrosively like rotting flesh. A clawed, grimy, murky, reddish finger reached forward-

It grinned at him, paralyzing him like stone where he lay in the Generals' arms.

And then, it leaped with a terrifying howl of pleasure, straight for his throat-

"_**EDMUUUUUUND!"**_

**OoOoOoOoO**

Mr. Collins idly sat at his large, furnished desk with the air of an impatiently bored cat. Before him, with its chain gently twisted around the knuckles of his large, smooth fingers, was a rather large, rather plain locket. Oval in shape and fairly gaudy in size, he fiddled with it between his index and pinky, popping the clasp of the pendant open and then dreamily flicking it back shut with a faint click. It was obviously a very old locket, since the cheap, silver gilding had rubbed clean off at the center of the clasp and part of the face, as though someone had repeatedly glided their thumb over the surface of it in moments of intense thought or study.

This moment of thought was popped like a freshly blown bubble as a sharp rap issued on the wooden paneling of his office door.

"Yes," he said, hastily packing the necklace into his breast pocket with an inexplicably deft movement, "Come in!"

The door creaked sullenly back on its hinges and Cain Jacobs, scowling deeply, slunk into the small room and into the armchair resting in front of the Headmaster's desk, flinging down his bag as he went.

"Ah, young Mr. Jacobs, just the fellow I'd been wanting to see."

"How many times am I going to be pulled out of class for not doing my homework?" interrupted Cain churlishly, while rolling his eyes in a wide sweep across the bric-a-brac of the room, "It's not like talking to me about it is going to make me feel any differently about the stuff."

"Yes, well," said Collins icily, "as kind as you are to be so honest with me about such elementary matters, I'm afraid I called you in here for a very different reason."

Cain sat up straight suddenly, eyes flashing, "And it wasn't me who smoked in the lavatory last week either!"

"If you don't hold your tongue, this will take quite a while, and I'll be forced to make sure that extracurricular activities like rugby try-outs are barred from you this fall. Am I quite clear?" the Headmaster asked sharply, looking so stern that, for a moment, Cain actually shrank back into his chair with proper disgrace.

"Yes, sir..."

They were silent a moment. Then-

"Boy, do you love your mother?" Collins voiced aloud, leaning over his desk to strain his seriousness on the question at hand. Cain blinked, then frowned.

"She's all right, I suppose," he allowed, nose wrinkling, "But what has my mother got to do with you, Professor Collins?"

"I loved my mother," said the professor in a very low, very emotional voice. So much so that Cain shrank away again, this time for fear that the man had gone mad.

Perhaps he had.

"I loved my mother so much," he continued, " that I did everything she told me to do, and believed everything she said. Everything," he emphasized, "Even when everyone else did not. And look where I am now!" He swept a long arm over through the stale air that occupied the room, "I'm the head of a prestigious university for young men- the likes of which no city or country has ever seen before!"

He stood in a tragic sweep of his coat tails and briskly stepped to the window that permitted a keen view of the courtyard below, where boys romped about and chatted in their free time, his handsome face drawn tight with some burdensome destiny or destination. Dark brow scrunched, his hands folded neatly behind his back, his carefully combed hair shining brightly against the sun's rays that seeped into the office through the glass pane; he was the very picture of philosophical thought.

Just as sudden as the expressions' appearance, it disappeared, and he whirled back to the student seated at his desk.

"I'm not such an obstinate man that I can't make a deal with you, Mr. Jacobs."

"Deal?" asked Cain warily, his own brown eyes taking in the man with intense discomfort. Headmaster Collins smiled genially.

"Your grades are...sufferable, I suppose. But all of your teachers swear by what they say when they tell me that you're a delinquent in the making. Recent word from your "all right" mother," here he held up an envelope that Cain hadn't noticed at first in his hand, "supplies me with the knowledge that your step-father would be most, ahem, _displeased _to discover your less-than amiable attempt at your schooling."

For a moment, Cain merely sat in the small armchair, blinking faster as his comprehension of just what his stuffy school teacher was hinting at began to swell.

"You're joking."

"Why does everyone ask me that?" wondered Collins, lightly tapping the corner of the envelope upon a paperwork stack.

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**A/N: So many people wanted a continuation of what happened with the Ogres (and more Ed-time) that I based the majority of this chapter on it (and I'm still not done with it...yet).**

**As well, I have given you all just another tid-bit to chew on regarding an odd scene between Cain Jacobs and . ;D I couldn't resist. It actually IS essential to the plot though, as I keep saying.**

**My thanks to the many who have taken the time to review my former chapters- I get inspired each time I hear back from the readers of P.E. ^_^ My guidelines for reviews are the same as ever: YOU CAN TYPE A SINGLE WORD IF YOU HATE WRITING AT LENGTH! An example would be the ever popular, "Good," or "Bad." One little word sums up the job nicely.**

**May your weeks be good!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

New Vocabulary:

paroxysm- a fit (of rage, pain, coughing, or other)

expedited- helped or hurried the progress of

splenetic- bad-tempered

gallimaufry- a collection or assortment

Old Narnian Names:

Good ol' Ethonai actually possesses a name that was bestowed upon him from the Kings and Queens upon his entrance into their service after he saved Queen Lucy's life. Quite simply, and because they knew so little of the language at the time, the Pevensies named him "Flight." The name is pronounced in the Narnian way (according to authoress elecktrum), that is, to split the "t" and the "h."


	9. Nine: Prophecy Explored

**P.E**

**Chapter Nine: Prophecy Explored**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Narnia. To say otherwise would be stealing from the Emperor Over the Sea.**

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_"Again, if two lie down together, they will keep warm; but how can one be warm alone?" Ecclesiastes 4:11_

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It hadn't taken long for me to relay my dream to Susan, who had gently held me while I trembled pitifully next to her. All the while I knew that keeping myself calm was key to enlisting her assistance and that I needed her help to make a plan of what to do next. But Susan was named Gentle, and so she stayed with me a while. In a continual, calming motion, her pale hand smoothed a single strand of my sweaty hair behind my ear, hushing me in her maternal way.

It was a small mercy that my roommate had long since escaped from our room to search for a quieter resting spot. My vision had been frankly disturbing, and even now it ran like staining ink over my eyes, marring what I truly saw;

_My eyes blinked open and I was standing on water, looking out over a frozen sheet of glistening, glass-like ice that floated around the shape of an equally frozen, hulking mass of a spiraling castle, its turrets dripping with partially melted snow. A breeze kicked up the back of my hair, and I walked silently forward at its quiescent ushering, finding myself suddenly within the palace gates, pacing across a frozen courtyard._

_A garden had probably once been planted here, and I saw celandine poking bravely up from the frost, their bright, sunny yellow a violent disagreement with the pale, sickly blue that surrounded them. The rest of the space was clearly dead, the dried, brittle twigs that rattled ominously from the poisoned trees sounded like the faint tapping of light footsteps. Or escaping ghosts._

_A small yip caught my attention._

_Turning my head forward again, I saw the entrance to the castle, and a fuzzy, red top of a small, dog-like animal, that seemed to stamp agitatedly at the snow, throwing its muzzle about to retain my gaze._

_"Hello," I said, my voice standing out in the absolute quiet, and I self-consciously lowered my tone to a whisper; "What are you doing here, little one?"_

_The kit yipped again, then gave a small, playful growl, before leaping backwards into the shadow of the Hall, its small body soon lost to view. I felt a thrill of worry, and marched after him, dodging around the charred form of a lightning struck tree and jumping over a few iron bars that littered the ground before I tripped up the icy steps, squinting into the darkness as I took the plunge-_

_-I opened my eyes again to a grassy plain, hot air swelling around me and gently stirring the tall, golden grasses that swayed sleepily about. It was eerily quiet here as well, and the constant churning of heat was both irritating and oppressive._

_My feet guided me through the grass, the movement startling strange, large birds out of the stalks, which hooted and jabbered and cawed at me as though I had done them a personal injury. They were quite ugly creatures, much like vultures, with large beaks, sharp talons, and molting feathers, red, beady eyes tacked on me so obsessively that it almost hurt._

_"Shoo!" I cried, flapping my hands at them. They settled again, though, and proceeded to stare after me as I cautiously watched them._

_A yip, and then a tiny, flying ball of fur seemed to careen out of nowhere, taking one down and pinning it by the throat, his sharp little teeth ripping out its gizzard before it could aim a peck at him. The bird fell limp, and he looked up at me, muzzle covered in blood. White teeth spread in a grin._

_"Good boy," my lips said, the rest of me frozen, and he wagged his tail once before perking up, tall ears twitching wildly._

_"What is it?"_

_He barked and zipped off again, this time with me after him. The grass seemed to part before us, twisting and bending until it felt more like I was on the River Rush, floating on blocks of shattered ice and clinging dizzily to my older brother, rather than jogging after strange creatures in a hot field. I tripped once or twice, and he vanished from view for a bit until I had righted myself and trotted after him. It wasn't long before we had reached an outcropping of stones in the midst of a small clearing._

_The mound of stone, it would seem, was what he had been after._

_He barked, louder this time, and fairly flew up to it, tail twitching so powerfully behind him that it was as if it were a completely separate entity. The pile of heavy, rain-worn stones stacked neatly upwards, constructed so that a hole was available at the front as a sort of doorway for creatures to pass through, and from the shadows of its depths, I could hear a distinct rumble issue out._

_In my dream, I felt- I knew- instantly that this building was not just any random collection of rock._

_It was a den._

_A den of what, though? My furry friend seemed to find it home enough, and excitedly stormed the entrance, barking away as though there was no tomorrow. The rumbling, if anything, began to grow in volume, until a nostalgic wave began to fold over me, and I reached out a trembling hand for the shadowy form slinking through the mouth of the cavern._

_"Aslan…?"_

_Fiery light struck the figure and I was again corrected in my knowledge, perceiving this magnificent beast to not be my Highest King, but a smaller, younger looking cub. The kit tumbled about his feet, barking and growling and being a general, affectionate pest. The cub didn't seem to mind, however, and sort of playfully bowled him over with a large, fore-paw, his ears twisting forwards and back again when the kit started up a round of indignant woofs._

_"Be nice," I said, surprising myself a bit that I had spoken to the pair at all; there was a familiarity about them, about the way they interacted, that strongly reminded me of someone. I couldn't ignore it._

_But they, it would seem, were quite proficient at ignoring me, and not a bit of them showed the smallest sign that either had heard a word I had said._

_The cub, growing tired of this din-filled game, snorted and padded softly over to a patch of flattened grass, turning once or twice before lying down with a huff. His friend made as if to follow-_

_-and froze._

_His ears, spinning and twitching with a possessed sort of energy, flipped direction back to the den, and he crouched his fluffy body low to the ground, a far more menacing growl scraping out of his throat than ever I had heard. His entire form, small though it was, was wired tight as each and every muscle tensed and vibrated, all pointed at the den's mouth._

_The sky, so blindingly blue before, now dashed behind smoking columns of black clouds, which rolled at us with all the ferocity of a river's mouth, soon covering all above, and the powerful gust that carried them sweeping past my face, a ghostly echo of an icy chill brushing my cheek, the brief contact almost burning my flesh with its caress._

_"Sssssssssssssss…"_

_For a horrible moment, I thought it was the sound of my skin melting away from my face._

_"Ssssss…"_

_But no- I knew that sound._

_A large form coiled and slid from the same den the kit and cub lived in, lazily flicking its tongue out to sample the fear that sat so thickly in the fast cooling air. It wound out of the hole, stretching its monstrous belly until it easily spanned the length of two trolley buses lined tail-to-tail._

_Pitch black underside, oddly shiny, with traditional half-bands of night crossing over a murky brown exterior, the Asp slithered forward, a triangular head facing dead at the snoozing cub._

_The kit barked sharply, scurrying between the two, and the Asp tried to maneuver around, weary of the prospect of being diverted by such a meager morsel, but the kit sidestepped again, growling all the while._

_At this point I tried to run up to the group, snatch the kit and cub and run for my life, but some heavy hand clenched me still, and I was useless to fight its terrible strength. Not even my arms would lift to reach out to them. It was like I was a prisoner in my own body._

_"Run!" I cried, dread circling my stomach as the snakes' gaze flickered and rested curiously on the feisty beast before him, "Run, get out of there!"_

_He stayed put, though, hissing and spitting even as the Asp slowly, surreptitiously encircled him, craftily drawing his ring tighter and tighter, the yellowing sky tingeing his body into greenish hue, his scales beginning to brush the soft fur of the kit, who started and seemed to realize, too late, that he was trapped._

_So did the Asp._

_"SSSSSSS!"_

_Lightning- the only thing on the earth that could have been faster._

_Before I could blink, let alone scream another warning, the snake was withdrawing its poisonous fangs from the neck of the kit, blood dripping from the both of them, and I shrieked in terror, then again when I saw the kit weakly raise its paw to scratch at the snake's nose, earning himself another snag of needling teeth into his already punctured skin. He yelped._

_"NO!" I yelled, shaking with the effort to fight my invisible bonds, my throat tearing with grief just as the kit's was torn by heartless teeth, "GET UP!" I turned to the cub, fury, need, terror rising in me at once, "GET UP AND HELP HIM! YOU'RE STRONGER THAN HE IS!"_

_The kit mewled. The cub stirred. The bone-chilling "caws" of the nightmare birds sounded like morbid trumpets as they circled above. The Asp licked its upper lip, waiting for the prey to fall to endless slumber._

_Then the dream changed, and in the coiled binds of the despicable reptile, hanging limply, bleeding freely, with eyes staring sightlessly back at me, their pupil slowly hazing over with a milky film, was not the kit I had chased through the Witch's castle-_

_It was my brother._

**OoOoOoOoO**

"Stay your hand, Peter," Edmund said sharply, pausing all movement as he fixed me a heavy glare, "Don't you dare!"

"I'm hungry."

"Well you won't be for much longer if you eat that! What are you trying to do, kill yourself?"

"What's wrong with it?"

Edmund sputtered, "'Wrong' with it? 'What's _wrong _with it'? Aslan's ma-"

"-Ed."

"-Heaven's sake," he amended smoothly, albeit in a very huffy manner, his dark eyebrows twitching with distaste, "What on earth could be _right _with it?"

"Edmund," I said, very pointedly, as I aimed a fork at my plate, "these are eggs. You've seen them before, right?"

"Eggs," he, too, stabbed a fork at my plate, using each jab as emphasis for every word that shot accurately and precisely from his lips, "Aren't," jab, "_White_," jab.

My brow rose.

"So I added a little salt to them-"

-Edmund picked up the salt pillar and thumped it violently down on the tabletop, startling a few younger boys down the row as he tapped a finger sternly on the side of it.

"This," he said, clicking a short fingernail on the pillar, about an inch from the top, "is how full the container was before you got your grubby hands on it. And _this_," he rattled the last few grains about in the air above his head with snarky intent, "is how much of your precious _salt _you left the rest of us by the time you'd finished gracing your eggs."

He brought the glass pillar back to the wooden surface with a loud bang and fixed me with another wicked glare.

"Your kidneys are going to pop."

I shoveled a fork-full and stuck it in my mouth, smiling somewhat smugly at the comically disgusted look that covered my little brother's face while I delightedly chewed.

"Yum," I exclaimed gleefully, after swallowing loudly.

"Where's your decorum? The man who taught me to sit up straight- a Food Ruiner!" He folded onto the table in a decided slump, glaring levelly at my plate from behind his arms, mumbling all sorts of malevolent wishes for the poor pile of snowy eggs that I was steadily working on.

"'Ruiner' isn't a word, Ed."

Instead of responding with further playful banter, Ed flicked his dark eyes up to mine, and cocked his head, a slight crease appearing just below his bangs as all of his movements slowed in thought.

"You don't look so good."

I smiled, shaking my head and scooping another bite, "Eggs can't kill me that quickly."

He frowned, clearly not buying my bait, and sat up. I couldn't help but shift uncomfortably in my seat as my brother's (my King's) gaze swept over me, knowing that his onyx watch wouldn't miss a single detail about my countenance. Nothing escaped Edmund. It was one of the many reasons I could send him on missions to foreign lands during our reign:

Nothing could escape him, and he could escape anything.

"You're not sleeping well."

His voice was concerned, but also a tad accusatory at my renege. I should have told him sooner, what with my speech about sharing burdens with each other just a few weeks ago, but not two days after the matter, I began having frightening dreams. Dreams of memories.

I set down my fork.

_"Provis, de traej figya Montai blo Kroi-Tali? Mi erran fie don?_ [Brother, do you remember the Battle of the North-West? In our fourth year?]"

A wry grin upturned a corner of his lips because I was using Old Narnian, and he lightly patted his left shoulder with a small nod.

"_Mifan_," he responded, which meant "Yes" or "Of course."

I fingered the edge of my napkin hesitantly, and his smirk quickly flipped into a worried frown, his right hand flying back down from his shoulder in his knowledge of the guilt I was prone to taking on.

"_Roraithan_? [Nightmares?]" he ventured softly, placing his fists on either side of his own plate, a precaution so that I wouldn't have to fly across the entire table to anchor myself; to know that he wasn't too far to reach.

"_Cornar trale ma minas. Traej_- [I make a mistake. You -]" I paused, my own fists clenching and unclenching agitatedly, the terrible fantasies replaying in my mind's eye, their haunting images disagreeing strongly with the eggs that jittered about on the inside of my stomach.

"_Pronae isai Narniano_, [I came home,]" Edmund murmured firmly, "_Shou la traej_. [Thanks to you.]"

And I once again felt waves of pride and affection rolling off of him, just like when I had told Hamilton I had wanted to become doctor. Only now, it was given the full reign of his face- I could barely look up, my cheeks felt so hot in light of his wordless praise. Unguarded affection from Ed was a rare thing. Probably because it was so utterly overwhelming. He was anything but convivial. But…

I looked up, hand shielding my brow to peek at the fierce stare that seemed to elevate me before the entire throng of boys breakfasting around us. Burning coals, ignited by a passion that had given him the drive to do all he had done as my fellow king and ruler.

…It was empowering. To have him for a brother.

Ed leaned forward earnestly.

"You saved my life that day. That day and many others. What you need to tell your dreams, is that I'm not going anywhere," he suddenly grinned roguishly at me, "because I doubt that you would let me."

I floundered to change the subject.

"Ahem. Er- And you? How are you feeling about the tryouts?"

Thankfully, my brother was feeling merciful enough to let me off the hook from further hero-worship, and Ed fell back into his chair with a practiced scowl, "You'd think I'd never competed before."

"So, basically, you're a nervous wreck?"

Ed shook his head, dark, shortened locks whisking in the air, "I can only hope to keep up in P.E-"

"-Which isn't a problem," I interrupted, chewing on another round of salted eggs.

"-And give it my all when the day actually comes."

"Just think of it like a tournament," I reached for the tea pot that sat a ways off from my seat and poured myself a small cup, "Four days left, right? To train?"

"_Mifan_," Ed said, a secretive smile lighting up the back of his eyes, "_Lai en Syr famil Pronae? _[Would my King bless me?]"

I choked on my tea and Edmund passed me a napkin to swab up the spittle on the table.

"_What?"_

"It's not a tournament, if I'm not fighting for King and country, now is it?"

I gaped at him.

"I need a sword for something like that, Edmund."

He let out a Horse-like breath through his lips and cast his eyes about the table top, then picked up the buttering knife he had been using to scrape jelly onto his toast, wiped the blade into his napkin, and held it out to me, handle first.

"It's close enough," he shrugged, "Or you could use your ruler from maths. I don't really mind either way."

I wondered if he knew just how degrading it would be for him if I were to so much as consider blessing him with a serving utensil. To use a cheap burlesque. It was just- just unjust.

Rot protocol.

Kissing my right palm, I disregarded the knife and reached across the table, and fairly smacked it against his forehead, garnering a rather stunned expression out of my typically stoic brother. I held it there a moment, letting the blessing sink in as I felt the coolness of his pale skin beneath my hand suddenly warm.

"_Ka monta wo kwiki blo Aslani la famili blo Syra, Penthairman blo Narniano, _[Then fight with the aid of the Lion, and the blessing of this King, Champion of Narnia,]" I said, as he bowed his head in acceptance, "It's the very least I can do for you."

It was his turn to blush.

"Eat your salt," he groused, withdrawing from my palm to stab at his toast, though sharing the exact same, knowing smile that I now had resting on my lips.

_Aslan, guard him._

**

* * *

**

**A/N: I tried wrapping up a few of the many strands so that it would be easier to comprehend what's going on in the plot. Granted, the dream sequence may have further confused a couple of people. I had to get the story back to the original (main) setting, though.**

**Peter's love of salt comes from an earlier work of mine that I've never published. In that story, as with this one, Peter and Edmund argue about salt's ability to endanger Peter's life.  
**

**More Old Narnian to come.**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

**New Vocabulary;**

**Quiescent- quiet, silent**

**Renege- to fail to keep a promise/ agreement**

**Convivial- sociable, lively**

**Burlesque- (noun) a mocking imitation**


	10. Ten: Potentate's Enterprise

**P.E**

**Chapter Ten: Potentate's Enterprise**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: Call me delusional, but I DON'T think I'm a male writer who earned millions in inventing one of the most famous children stories of all time.

* * *

**

"_[Love] always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres," 1 Corinthians 13:7

* * *

_

Regardless of his recent gain in height, Edmund still felt like a dwarf in comparison to the twenty or so sixteen and seventeen-year-olds that were chatting politely in the center of the pitch.

They were _huge_, these other "older" boys! What with their thick, muscle-toned arms, their square jaws, their brawny necks, and their broad shoulders. And they had simply come from nowhere; dredged up from the slew of rich dandies that littered the halls. All present retained their summer tans from visits to beach-side resorts at their summer homes in France. They kept their gleaming, bleached teeth exposed to the crisp, morning air as tribute to the hundreds of bills that their parents had paid. Their hair was neatly parted and combed to show their graceful waves that were meticulously cut off at the proper length, with not one stray hair flying loose. And to top off their expensive perfection, each and every one of them was warm and welcoming to his neighbor as a gentleman should be.

"I'm surrounded by Peters," Edmund mumbled, crossing a thin, pale arm across his chest as he stretched a little ways off from the initial group of Grecian idols.

'_And now I have to beat them.'_

Four days had passed far faster than he had believed was possible, leaving him with barely enough time to collect himself for the challenges of making the Hartbee rugby team. But his brother had been there for every second of those four days, which made the entire ordeal far more sufferable. Every morning the two of them had reached the pitch early, and raced each other around the track. After, they then met at the center to begin a few of the exercises Oreius had drilled into them for years, and that their weakened bodies had only recently been capable of performing.

"_Not like that, Ed," Peter said, standing in front of him while he tried to weave his way through a complex series of sword steps, without the actual weapon, "Remember? It was a dodge to the left and _then_ a sweep overhead- not the other way around. You need to be in the right position to move to the next pattern."_

_Panting, Edmund broke from his stance to wipe his foreheag and leaned forward, dragging in deep breaths while dropping his chin to his chest and planting his hands on his hips._

"_It'd be easier," he managed, frustrated with his elementary mistakes, "if we didn't keep stopping."_

_Peter rubbed at the dark circles that lined his magnificently blue eyes, clearly just as worn as his younger brother was, "You want to break for a bit?"_

"_Do you?" Edmund shot back, and took up his position once more._

_A small twitch on the full lips of the High King._

"_Just focus, Ed."_

Focus.

Edmund blinked and glanced at the assembling group of boys that was quickly forming around the solitary figure of Mr. Hamilton, shaking out his legs before jogging over to join them.

"All right ladies!" the portly gym teacher called out, waving a clipboard expressively about in the air as he motioned for the group to huddle closer. Perhaps it was to conserve warmth, Edmund pondered idly. It was certainly chilly enough to consider.

"Today you girls are going to prove to me that you have what it takes to operate as a well-oiled, championship team! Anyone who isn't willing to practice three hours _everyday _after classes and_ four_ hours on weekends can clear out now!"

There was a brief flurry of disbelieving glances and one or two boys who looked ready to actually start a march back up to the school. But no one moved, and Hamilton continued;

"Good. Because I won't accept anybody who isn't going to give this program their all-" His framed eyes swept the crowd, starting a tad when they landed on the surprisingly present form of Cain Jacobs, who glowered back as he shifted to cross his arms over his chest, "-And I can only hope that the few that pass today's test will be the best of the lot."

A few young men slapped low-fives with their friends, clearly confident of filling this role.

A shrill whistle call made them jump.

"Well, what are you all standing around for? Line up on the track! I'm timing you. Four laps- Go on! Wait for my whistle…"

The herd of boys ambled towards the painted starting line, and Edmund caught sight of Peter, arms laden with medical supplies, walking to sit on the edge of the bleachers. Of all the menial tasks that the older boy had been assigned in accordance with his integration onto the nursing staff, the prime of Peter's energy was being set forth to watching out for his little brother in the tryouts. Edmund's heart leapt with an overwhelming surge of pride, and a smile actually fitted itself onto his lips before he could find the strength to resist. _Doctor Peter Pevensie…_

It had a nice ring to it, although it couldn't hold a candle to his older brother's _true_ title.

As Edmund made his way behind the line, crouching slightly to give his body more momentum when he would take the first leap forwards, Peter put down the box and looked up just in time to lock eyes with the younger king, the connection making him privy to the cautious worry that streamed from the elders' sky-blue gaze.

With a small jolt, Edmund remembered the conversation they had held just a few hours before.

"_Peter! Peter, wake up!" _

_He reached across the desk and shook the solid arm of his big brother until he heard a low moan escape Peter's lips, then placed his hand on his sweaty hair, trying to calm him, "Just a nightmare, brother. You're all right, see?" _

_Edmund smiled at the wavering look that moved to rove over his face._

"_Sorry," Peter's voice was raw, sounding on the verge of either screaming or crying, or as though it was worn from doing exactly that, "They just keep coming back."_

"_Battle of the North-West?" Edmund asked, trying to keep his tone light._

"_Blasted Ogres," Peter assented, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his right hand, the other gripping Edmund's forearm with unrealized, unparalleled strength. Then, quietly, "It makes me want to throw up every time. Every single time…Seeing you…Seeing what's left of _them_…"_

_Edmund cut him off, squeezing his brother's forearm until Peter returned it, and looked him fiercely in the eye, "No more, Peter. Don't think on it anymore. 'Narniano,' Peter. 'We are home.'"_

_They had been a foolish race, to contest his brother and to attempt harm to Edmund while Peter was so near. To attack the siblings' home with senseless desires to gain deadened land and enslave noble Creatures. To use such infamously barbaric methods in order to seek those radical desires. Poor, stupid, foolish Ogres…Poor, soft, feckless beasts._

_His brother shuddered in remembrance._

_Poor Peter._

"_You haven't had it easy, of late," he murmured, "It's no wonder you've hit a nightmare streak."_

"_And you haven't had it easy lately, either," Peter said suddenly, drawing back to sit up straighter, scrutinizing Edmund with a stern eye that struck him as identical to that of their father, "Your feeling is getting stronger. I can tell."_

_There was no point in lying._

"_Yes."_

_"Then why are you still trying out?" Peter asked, surprising Edmund with the force in his tone, "Don't you have enough on your plate without taking on something like this?"_

_"I-" Edmund mumbled, letting go of his brother to pick up a pencil and scratch out a word or two in his essay, "I never liked being weak."_

_"You're not weak, Ed!"_

_A wry grin._

_"But I'm not as strong as you."_

**OoOoOoOoO**

TWEEEEEET!

Hamilton's whistle split the air with a sharp blow, and the gaggle of students surged desperately forwards, a few of the larger blokes immediately taking the lead. I squinted and shielded my eyes from the morning sun. Across the span of the sloping track, I was barely able to make out the shadowy shape of Ed, who had stumbled in surprise at the initial whistle, yet was quick to recover as he pumped his skinny legs against the gleaming blacktop.

"Come on, Ed," I said under my breath, watching his progress down the lane, "Show them what you can do!"

I wouldn't have been surprised if my brother had actually heard me, with all of his prided experience of listening in on other's conversations, for at the exact moment that I had spoken, a devilish grin replaced the befuddled look with frightening force. Soon he had pulled ahead of the group at a reckless gallop, casting a good-natured smirk at the stunned faces of the two brutes in front.

"No time to show off, Ed," I whispered, pacing and rubbing my hands to keep warm in the briskly cold air, "Focus!"

"Hey! Senior!"

I blinked and looked over to the sidelines. Mr. Hamilton stood a little ways off, holding his clipboard and stopwatch, and sending me a rather genial look.

Or, genial for Hamilton, anyway. He wasn't scowling at me, I suppose.

"Sir?" I asked, climbing down from the bleachers to place myself next to him. He nodded at the track, indicating to where my brother sprinted fifteen meters advanced from the rest.

"You're making me nervous, jittering about like that. Here- Help me keep their times." He handed me the clipboard, peeking up at me from behind his spectacles. For a moment I pretended to ignore him, my eyes slowly tracing my brother's progress down his lane. His triumphant, competitive grin. His sense of ease and his air of purpose. _Aslan guard him._

"You worried about him, Blond?"

I smiled at the nickname, and at the thought of what the General would have sounded like trying to initiate it, "Yes, sir. Edmund likes- _tends-_ to put himself beyond a normal human's capacity. I just hope he doesn't try to do the same thing now."

We both watched with an almost leisurely mein as Edmund zipped across the landscape, the boys behind him already flagging in their endurance.

"Perhaps it's genetic," Hamilton muttered, and then cleared his throat, "I wasn't expecting Brunette to try this without you. You two are close, right?"

"We're brothers, Mr. Hamilton."

He scoffed, "Doesn't mean a thing in this world, to be a brother. My brothers and I weren't close. You- You and him," he nodded again at the field, catching my brother with a whistle-shrill just as he flew by us, his slip-stream stirring my bangs with its zephyr, "You two have something special. Have you always been like that?"

'_Shut up! You think you're dad-'_

I shook my head, clearing the darker memory and answering the question simultaneously.

"We went through a hard time a few years ago, when our father first went off to fight."

"Ah," Hamilton said, nodding with grave understanding, "a lot of families did, too."

"Yes, I suppose they did."

We were silent a moment

"What happened? To turn it around, I mean. Time?"

I turned to face my best friend's back as he glided swiftly past the other boys, knowing that a shy, secretive smile was stealing onto his features, as I caught glimpses of them looking at him in alarm and amazement…That was the _exact_ reaction our enemies had given when they crossed the Just King for the first time. Although Edmund preferred to remain as my Living Shadow, moving only after me, and following me so loyally it was almost a fault, there were still times when he would come out of nowhere-

-And my Shadow brought to light was probably the most disarming thing an enemy of Narnia could possibly face.

"Time was crucial," I said slowly, thinking of sweeping halls, grand crowns, flashing swords, and choosing my words with care, "But, more so, was what we did _within_ that time."

Hamilton studied me as I scribbled a few of the other boy's times down for their first lap, noting (with smug satisfaction) that their times didn't hold a candle to my fellow king's current record.

"What did you two do 'within that time'?"

I turned my head to wing him an odd sort of half-smile, riddled with memories.

"We…"

Memories of Edmund, bleeding red, lying small and frail on the stained grounds of Beruna, gasping his last in our arms flooded my mind… Images of Edmund, twisting at restraining hands with a fearsome snarl, righteous rage driving him to sinking his teeth into the arm of their captors, fighting to reach the small form of a crying Lucy…Edmund, at my back while Werewulfs hissed and growled menacingly around us, the small quirk that touched his somber eyes making the entire cavern seem brighter…Edmund, my friend and protector. My cherished alliance. My shadow.

My brother.

"…We lived. Mr. Hamilton. We lived and fought for Life."

Mr. Hamilton shot me an indiscernible look, and a fresh batch of memories from last night's '_Roratithan,_' or 'Night Terrors' shuddered across the slopes of my mind as Edmund passed us for a second time with motions identical to one of Susan's arrows.

'_For one another…mo Provis [my Brother.]'_

"So, you're very protective of him, eh Senior?" Hamilton asked, his voice gruff with an attempt to mix some "manly" English bravado into the increasingly sentimental conversation.

"You have no idea."

**OoOoOoOoO**

**The North-West Region of Narnia: Year 1004**

"_**EDMUUUUUUND!"**_

I will never, for as long as I live, be able to recount how I had managed to leap those few feet, push the General and my brother back with one arm, while slashing upwards with Rhindon in the other. I will never be able to explain how I immediately lit upon the staggering form of the blood-thirsty monster, miraculously driving it towards the rocks with my intensity. My possession.

"General! Get him out of here now!" I roared, side-stepping the rake of gruesome talons that whizzed past my cheek and drew a fleck of blood as the last nicked my flesh there. I could distantly hear the protesting yells and pained screams of my little brother, but the craving for more blood to be spilled- to taste the blood of my demonic enemy, only made me all the more certain that I did not want my sibling present to witness its demise.

That was another thing; I don't recall ever thinking or feeling that I would lose. After that terrifying leap at Edmund, the only thing I can remember is movement and screams. And unbelievable power crumbling out of me.

…But I do remember coming to, with Edmund's white face right in front of mine.

"_Peter_," he breathed, as I blinked, slowly becoming reintroduced to my surroundings, and he tackled me into a hug, "Oh, Peter- are you all right? Are you hurt at all? I'm sorry I wasn't sooner- Oreius wouldn't let me leave (more like _move_) until Lucy choked some cordial down my throat. I came as soon as I could- _Aslan_, you're all right, aren't you, Peter? Where's the Ogre?"

Wordlessly, I pointed at the mess of carnage that lay scattered and torn across the small slope.

Then I twisted to the side and vomited my breakfast onto the hillside.

Edmund seemed translucent at this point, but kept a hand on my armoured back until the rest of his guard ran up, panting, beside us, all the while murmuring gentle nonsense to balm my taxed nerves.

"Shh. Shh, I have you. _You're_ safe. _I'm_ safe. It's okay. Everyone's all right. _Provis_-!"

He pressed his forehead to my temple, breathing with me, above the small pool of sick that I had expelled from my body, but did not wince at the stench, "_Provis_, _Desrg de mast an manxs; Biaxs mi Lan. Nat. Nat…_[Brother, Run not from one fear; Believe in Him. Peace. Peace…]" His hand came up, freed of its gauntlet, and rested, cool and soft, on the back of my neck, and we breathed together.

"_Jeistha wo Pronae, Provis [_Breathe (_literally: _draw life) with me, Brother]."

I shuddered and leaned heavily against him, taking comfort in the slight warmth his brow gave off.

"_Jeistha…"_

**OoOoOoOoO**

Mr. Hamilton found himself forcing his usual scowl as the younger Pevensie brother swept the finish line, a full lap ahead of the next quickest runners. The boy let out a whoop, clasping arms with his brother as they exchanged another, wordless congratulations. Brunette's hair was plastered to his head, his typically white face shiny and cherry-red at the top of his cheeks.

"Fast enough for you-" here he used a word that Hamilton had never heard before in his life, "-or should I start sneaking out for earlier runs?"

"Quit bragging-" another odd word, "or else I'll be forced to humble you before your teammates," Blond said, ruffling the mop of dark hair with a large, fond hand.

Brunette, flushed with victory, waved a cheeky finger in his older brother's face, "Ah, ah, ah! We don't know if I've made the team yet. Don't count your chickens before they've hatched, Mother Hen!"

"Why you-!"

And Blondie locked his unfortunate sibling in a rather impressive-looking headlock, rubbing slightly less affectionate knuckles into the scalp of the smaller chap, snickering wickedly at the squirms and protests that the younger tried to use to escape the sturdy grip.

"Leggo-!"

The portly teacher busied himself with jotting the remarkably short time upon the paper, feeling that watching any further would be an intrusion. So he turned to squint at the approaching runners.

The second place looked like it belonged to-

Hamilton squinted again, took of his glasses to huff moisture on them, scrub with the edge of his jacket, and then replaced them to stare disbelievingly at the small group of boys that were stampeding down the lane. One raced a good meter beyond his companions.

When the boy skittered past him, coming to a slightly unsure stop a small distance from the line, Hamilton was still a little more than stunned.

"Well…"Hamilton cleared his throat, then coughed, and massaged his Adam's apple, trying to speak, "…Em…Good job, Jacobs. Why don't you run like that in class?"

The wealthy recusant scowled, crossing his arms over his chest in a distinctly surly manner, his eyes narrowed after the teasing pair of Pevensies that were now talking easily as they sat on the bottom bleacher of the seats. Blond smiled warmly at his brother and pulled him into a quick hug, causing Jacob's eyes to darken.

"I hate class."

And he did.

**OoOoOoOoO**

"You, my liege, are far more experienced with the healing of injuries, than I can recall. Were you actually paying attention when Oreius told you how to take care of yourself, or did you only listen to the lengthy diatribes I would fling at you when you didn't?"

We had survived the morning, thank Aslan, and I was pleased to see my brother in high spirits as we left the locker rooms and made our way to his dorm. One could almost forget that he was constantly feeling the strain of looming danger to our lives.

Almost.

"Be fair, Ed," I whined, slinging my med-bag farther up onto my shoulder as we strode along, "I did _so_ listen to Oreius." And a good thing, too; Jay had managed to sprain his wrist while running.

White teeth gleamed in an almost feral manner at me, "You just heard me better, right?"

"Well, at that decibel level, you were rather difficult to ignore…"

Ed grinned and bent to pick up a rock from the ground, rubbing his thumb over it in thought.

"It's fitting," he said softly, smiling a bit in the noon sunlight. I looked at him.

"What is?"

"This whole 'Doctor' thing you're working for. The job is perfect for you. A doctor _should _be caring, intelligent, stately-"

"-Rotund?" I offered jokingly, "Over-fed? Over-paid?"

"I'm being serious, Peter."

"I know." And it was slightly unsettling; my stoic brother! Trying to paint me with heroic colors! He sighed and tossed the rock aside, shaking his head with a small smile.

"Never mind. Let's get to my room before the luncheon rush: I'm exhausted."

"Is it okay if we stop by the mailing offices first?" I asked, and noted guiltily that he _did_ look a little worse-for-the-wear. I suppose whatever adrenaline had been lacing his blood was fading fast. "I'm expecting a letter from the girls this week."

Edmund perked up instantly. I loved to see the genuinely soft look that entered his eyes when the subject of Lucy and Susan came up.

"The girls? Yeah- come on."

But if we had known what the letter would entail, the both of us would have given a second thought to our cheerful laughter and smiles that we threw at each other on our merry way up to Hartbee's School for Young Men.

_Jeistha…_For how much longer would we both be capable of that?

**

* * *

A/N:**** For those who wanted me to continue the Ogre fight scene, I know it was rather short and seemed to end before it began, but that was really all there was left. Poor Peter doesn't really remember what he did to kill the Ogre- he just knows that it was violent. More about Peter's Ogre-incident will come to light in later chapters.**

**Thanks so much to the wonderful readers and reviewers who have had the patience to read this story up to chapter ten! I'm thrilled to have gotten this far, and I am eternally grateful to everyone reading this right now. **

**Happy Easter to all!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

**New Vocabulary****:**

**Potentate- monarch, ruler**

**Misnomer- wrongly given name or description**

**Recusant- a person who refuses to go along with something, to refuse to submit or comply**

**Zephyr- a soft, gentle wind**


	11. Eleven: Potential Epitaph

**P.E**

**Chapter Eleven: Potential Epitaph**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: Def. Something utterly cruel and mocking that smugly has a writer repeat (not without redundancy) that something they work on does not belong to them. **

* * *

"_Then the Lord answered me and said: 'Write the vision and make it plain on tablets, that he may run who reads it. For the vision is yet for an appointed time; But at the end it will speak, and it will not lie. Though it tarries, wait for it; Because it will surely come…' " Habakkuk 2:2-3 _

* * *

I got to the last line and, quite abruptly, stopped, feeling my heart begin to pound around the circumference of my head and within the Adam's apple of my throat- louder and louder with each quiet breath that floated through the stuffy air of the dorm room from my brother's bed, marking his claim by Sleep_. _My fingers felt oddly stiff as I held the sheets of ledger-lined papers between them, and I dimly recognized it as a miracle that they didn't violently shatter within my grip.

_Oh Aslan- What am I to do? What does it __**mean**__?_

Ed and I had been rather excitedly reached the post office in the main lobby after his tryouts only to discover that a rather weighted envelope was addressed to us in beautiful, flowing script- the practical insignia for Susan, as the rest of us tended to write in a rather unorthodox, medieval type of lettering- and had promptly snatched it up to retreat to my little brother's room to devour any news of our sisters.

Thank the Lion that he had been too worn to stay awake for more than a moment after he had sat on the bed- I don't think I would have been able to read past the first few lines aloud to him.

"_You both are fully aware of our youngest sister's gift of foresight, and the great aid it had given us in prior years of conflict- it would seem that such a time now lies ahead of us as well…"_

Of course we knew of Lucy's gift to see the future- who didn't? Lucy had never been like Ed. A gift given by Aslan was something to scream about (unless Calormenes were about), and every time she had received one, shaken though she was from their aftermath, she always made sure that the three of us knew what was about to happen.

'_Or a dream of a dream…Spare Oom!'_

Well, most of the time. Even Lucy had found difficulty in telling the difference between dream and prophecy, on occasion.

But now…

"_Be prepared, Peter. Quite a bit of this may be hard for you to read about…"_

_**Oh, Aslan! **__How am I to bear it? To know that Death is stalking the nearest family that I have- or ever will? How am I to _tell _him?_

Agitated, I rose from the chair and began to start for my brother's bedside, tempted to sit beside him and brush back the bangs from his eyes as I had when he was half this age- in both worlds. About a foot from the bed I was stopped by an indescribable urge, and simply stood over him, watching with positively morbid fascination as his chest rose and fell with peaceful, sleeping sighs, taking in the faint pulsing of his jugular vein through fair skin, and marveling at the absolutely angelic countenance that my brother portrayed in his rest.

He looked positively _harmless. _It was nothing like the Edmund Pevensie that was born upon the battlefield.

"…_The fox will notice a danger from the den that the tired lion cub does not- and will try to fend it off for him…" _

My hand reached out subconsciously, and its thumb barely brushed a pale cheek, looking like a spatter of intense color against a snowy bank, even in its own washed-out, English form. It only proved how exhausted he was- that he didn't instantly jerk up and attempt to defend himself against a potential attack. I felt my Older Brother instincts stir within me, an obligation- a _need_- to protect my sacrosanct brother rising incontestably within my breast.

"…_Then he will be surrounded, crushed, pierced, poisoned, and even killed by an enormous snake, that apparently commands the legions of birds that frightened Lucy when she was following him earlier…"_

Slowly, not wanting to even chance waking him, I creaked down on the mattress to sit at his side, and allowed my hand to rest more firmly upon the half of his face that was still visible from atop the down-pillow it was gracelessly smashed into. A nostalgic feeling tugged powerfully at the corner of my mouth and I allowed a smile for the still face of my brother, lifting my hand to gently stroke the thick forest of curls away from his forehead.

"…_I'm very sorry to say, my brothers, that neither of us can doubt who the fox is…"_

Edmund turned in his sleep, rolling until he lay on his back, and I did not move my hand while he shifted, making it so that when he stilled again, my palm was floating in the brief space of air above his slightly parted lips, just barely sensing the ghost of breath that lit, warm and soft, upon it. A thrill raced up my arm from the sensation and struck my heart with a shuddering crash, nearly causing me to gasp at the impact and a prickling beginning in the corners of my eyes.

"…_Therefore, even though we know that it will aggravate you, Edmund, we must beg our eldest to watch over you until we know exactly what is about to befall us…"_

I was overcome by a heart-wrenching wave of despair and child-like second-guessing.

Me? Protect my little brother? From what? From _whom?_ There were over one-thousand young men and nearly seventy professors at our school. There were easily one-hundred custodians. Regular visitors. Volunteers. Multi-School oriented events! The person responsible for harming Edmund in the future could very well be _**anyone**_.

How often could I shadow my shadow? Would he even permit me that? Especially if he knew what the letter was about? My brother hated being worried after: He had been known to do rash, worrying things in order to avoid it.

A gentle zephyr lightly heated the underside of my hand.

_Aslan-! What should I do?_

"…_We can only be thankful that the Lion was merciful to deliver such a tide-changing message to us before it was too late- Now we hold the upper hand in this battle, by knowing what to expect and knowing how to prepare appropriately for it…"_

I had to tell him. Regardless of what he would do. He was a king- he knew the risks. He knew that a message from Aslan was not one to wastefully squander with pride or embarrassment. His life was in danger- how could I keep something that monumental from him? Something that could save him?

"…_The lion will not awaken completely until the deed is done…"_

By Aslan, I would not permit it. I would not allow myself to laze about while my one and only brother had his young, blooming life torn away from his still-beating heart. I would die myself before such a thing could come to pass. Why would Lucy's vision even show such wretched act from me?

But one thing did make sense now.

"…_If either of you know of anything that could explain other parts of the dream, please inform us of them, as we (no doubt) have more time to spare on the matter than you, with only maths and basic stitchery to worry about…"_

I stroked my brother's eyebrow, tracing its dark arch from his slightly creased brow to the tapered edge of his closed, slightly quivering eye.

Edmund's feeling. Lucy's vision. They were indubitably connected to one another, the nexus of the two pointing towards one, valid message.

Edmund's feeling- he said that he couldn't feel when he himself was in danger. He _could_ feel when _I_ was.

Lucy's vision. The fox had sensed something the lion could not, and tried to protect _him._

Could it be, that the reason Edmund had been so worried, so affectionate towards me, so oriented to follow after me and attempt to spend time with me, was because he already **knew** that I was in danger? And he didn't want me to worry? And Ed had even gone as far as to stay up with me in order to calm me down after a particularly vivid and terrifying nightmare of him being ki-

"_**Oh, Aslan**_."

I covered my mouth quickly with one hand, feeling like vomiting or crying out, but not wanting to wake my slumbering king, who lay so innocently at my side.

I was so_** STUPID!**_

Aslan had been sending me nightmares for weeks, not to wear me down or to keep my brother from getting the proper amount of sleep-hours, but to warn us! He had been telling me all along what was about to happen, and I had been too stupid to realize it!

"Oh, My Lord, King, please forgive me…" I whispered hoarsely, my face planted in my left hand, with my right securely settled atop my little brother. I bent until my elbow rested on my knee, my body beginning to tremble with the sobs that were forcefully attempting to jump out of my tightly closed throat.

"Oh, my brother- _Pronae_…" my voice broke and I could speak no more, but opted to take comfort in the steady stream of humid air that was gently lifted from Edmund's mouth, and the equally soft tug that drew my hand steadily closer to his face, as he inhaled deeply from his dreams.

_Jeistha…_As long as my brother breathed, I would breathe with him. And as long as I breathed, I would make sure that he had one of his own to draw.

And, if need be, I would give him my own.

_Jeistha…_

Because a life without my family was not worth drawing alone.

Bowing my head so that our foreheads touched, just as the day when Edmund had found me in the bluffs, when I was still coming-to from a frightening swirl of screams, power, unmerciful vengeance, and fury-bred madness, I steadied myself with the sure beat of his pulse throughout the course of his brow, and I breathed in the sweet breath of my own- _Mo Syr _[My King].

"…_From where we are, we send our eternal love and support, along with fervent prayers to He who commissioned four frightened children to rally a nation of suppressed by His might. By Him, and through them, a world was reborn, and a family was saved. Even now, Peter and Edmund, I am sure that Aslan will not ignore our plight. 'Do not fail to hope in Him!' Lucy wants me to tell you, and I would like to add, that, in Him, you should not hope to fail…"_

OoOoOoOoO

Mr. Hamilton drew up short, eye brows rising as the student who tried (and failed embarrassingly) to disguise himself as a piece of furniture, placing down the legal documents and clipboard upon his desk as he gathered himself to bark:

"Macintosh?! Come here! Hup-to!"

Nervously, the sixth year tripped to stand, blushing to the roots of his hair, in front of the gym teacher. Hamilton scowled.

"What on earth are you doing in my office? And you better have a good reason, boy, or the headmaster might just get wind of this."

Of course, Hamilton would never admit it, but tattling on a teenager to a man who spent his time preening for interviews with potential sources of revenue wasn't actually an atrocity that he would commit. He was made of better stuff. Macintosh just didn't know that.

"I- I- I- I- I was just- trying to, um- I wanted-"

Hamilton frowned.

The boy looked on the verge of a heart attack. Or maybe he had always been that beet-red, and he'd just never noticed before. It was hard to tell- most of the boys who completed a day in Hamilton's class typically left with their faces the color of ripe tomatoes.

"Spit it out, lad! I don't have all day to listen to mumbling!"

"IwasjustwonderingwhetherornotEdmundPevensiemadetheteam!" Macintosh gasped out, his face turning even darker as he spewed the garbled bundle of syllables from his mouth.

"You're going to have to repeat that."

No, thought Hamilton, it probably _wasn't_ his actual skin-tone. As far as he knew, people weren't purple.

"I…was…just…_wondering,_" the boy said again, with such exaggerated patience, that Hamilton was tempted to tell him to speed it up again, "if…_Edmund Pevensie_…made…the…team…or…not."

Hamilton blinked and pulled his swivel-chair from behind his desk to sit down.

"You broke into my office to find out _that? _Has this whole school gone mad?" He slammed a fist upon the wooden surface, making the student jump, "Use that brain of yours Macintosh- Don't tell me you don't have one!"

When Macintosh was too overwhelmed to reply, he continued, "Have you ever- and I mean in your life or in any of those encyclopedias your family makes- seen someone as gifted as those Pevensies? Because _I _haven't."

"Um, no sir. I haven't."

"Neither have I," Hamilton scowled proudly, then stood abruptly and pointed dangerously at the open door, "Now use your brain and get out of here before I report you for breaking, entering, and pretending to be a lampshade. Go on! I have scores to tally."

Macintosh flushed again, returning to his rather complimentary shade of plum, and made to quickly escape, before Hamilton's voice called him back.

"Oh, Lamp?"

He froze, "Yes, sir?"

"Your friend…Jacobs. Did you know that he can run?"

"Cain?" Thomas smiled, his nervousness lightening a tad, "Yes, sir. He's one of the fastest chaps I've ever met. Smart, too. When he wants to be."

Hamilton shook his head despairingly.

"Boys like that- so much wasted potential."

Thomas offered a small, agreeing grin, "Yes, well, Cain can be shy about himself. He really is a nice fellow; it just takes a while for him to grow on you."

'_Sounds like a cancer,_' Hamilton thought darkly, then, aloud, "We'll see, Macintosh. We'll see. Go on to your dormitory, it's after hours anyway. And Lamp- If I catch you in here again without explicit permission from me, I'm going to haul your sorry rump all the way to the main offices myself. Understand?"

Thomas Macintosh gulped expressively, "Sir, yes sir!"

* * *

**A/N: ****Hello to all who have had the patience to read through the eleventh chapter of P.E! ^__^**

**My apologies for making this chapter so short, but my "problematic anomalies" popped up again, this time it the form of a computer glitch that wiped my original chapter from the program I'd been using. I retyped what I could, and I updated as soon as possible!**

**This chapter had quite a bit of Protective Peter, Snoozing Edmund, Cranky Hamilton, and Stalker Macintosh- I hoped you enjoyed reading about them. The next chapter is when Peter spills to Ed about what the letter entailed, and we get a bit more of interaction between the Brothers and the Classmates. Should be fun. ;D**

**To anyone who has read the previous chapters and had the constitution to review as well- I thank you sincerely, and wish to express my gratitude for your overwhelming support. I've had several people write me after following the story since the beginning, and I'm so happy that the story has kept you interested for so long. Thank you so much.**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123 **

**New Vocabulary:**

**Epitaph- words in memory of the dead, especially upon a gravestone**

**Nexus- a connected group or series**

**Sacrosanct- revered or respected and not to be rendered harm**


	12. Twelve: Ploy Effete

**P.E**

**Chapter Twelve: Ploy Effete**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: Oh, yeah. Let's rub it in ONE. MORE. TIME. **

* * *

"_For I am about to fall and my pain is ever with me," Psalm 38:17_

* * *

"Ed…"

He had been crying. He had been crying quite a _bit,_ if the swelling around his eyes was any clue.

It frightened me- because I knew my brother would never, _ever_ cry for some asinine reason- and my eyes instantly flew to the crumpled paper being mercilessly gripped in his right hand. Wild thoughts flew rampant through my mind at high speed, compiling a list of every possible tragedy that could have occurred during my brief respite.

"The girls- Are they-?"

He gave me a watery smile and shook his head, stilling my fluttering heart.

"The girls are fine. Lucy…She just…" Peter choked on his words- I could _hear_ them catch in the back of his throat with a noisy _pop_. He balked as the unspoken truths began to strangle him, and my hand reached across the minute space between us as I sat up on the bed, resting its fingers comfortably upon his arm. Blue iris's locked with surprising intensity on mine.

"_Provis_…" I murmured, my voice barely registering by my own ears, "_What is going on?_"

He swallowed heavily and, hand shaking, extended the balled-up letter for me to take.

"I…did not like…what was written," Peter enunciated with great difficulty, his free hand coming up next to his first, and deftly captured my stretching fingers, in order to bay whatever knowledge had so shaken my fellow king, "Please…" he swallowed again, "Please do not…think too ill of me. After you are done."

And he released me.

But I was rendered incapable of movement.

'_What do you mean? What is this letter __**about**__?! Brother-! Tell me!'_

"Think ill of you?" I whispered aloud, "Why…?"

The eldest Pevensie bowed his head, effectively bearing his crown of golden hair before me, and dropped his eyes from meeting mine.

"Just…Just read it, Edmund."

My stomach churned, flaring once more with that old ache. That cold dread and anxiety that ate at my core since the first arrow was notched against my brother's heart. The silent, flaming pain that seared ravenously, feasting upon my being with its sickening whispers of possibilities. Of nightmarish realities.

'_Not that. Not now. Aslan-! I'm not ready!' _

But I could not deny my brother's plea, and, tentatively, I pulled the letter from him, meticulously smoothing the creases in an effort to quell the raging sea that had taken up residence where my gut should have been in lieu. If it was as I suspected…then all of my planning would have been for naught. My gaze brushed lightly over the first line.

_My Dearest Brothers…_

Ah. So Susan had written it. I recognized her handwriting.

_I write you now in the most troubling of circumstances…_

Slowly, cautiously, I sank back against the headboard, my eyes fairly glued to the page, taking in the breaks of the paragraphs, the carefully indented margins, the faint mark of a dried water drop half-way down the second sheaf. Whether it had been Susan's, or if it had been Peter's, I could not yet discern. But in reaching the final paragraphs, I realized that it hardly mattered _which_ of them had broken down so thoroughly:

I could not comfort either of them.

…_Surrounded, crushed, pierced, poisoned, and even killed…_

Susan went on to describe the transition Lucy witnessed- the shift from animal into boy- and I felt myself grow faint against the hardwood.

'_I'm going to die.'_

It was with surprising clarity and serenity that the thought filled my mind. Like something learned years ago in a stuffy classroom that suddenly emerges in real life, with factual, evidential purpose. I had always known that I would, one day, leave this world and go to be with Aslan in His country. On some days that fateful time had seemed far more at hand than others.

'_I am going to die, and Peter is going to be safe.'_

But not for long enough- not as long as I had intended. '_Aslan-!'_ I couldn't protect my only brother from beyond this realm. It was not in my power to do so. I could not reach my hands from the veil of the Emperors' kingdom and meddle in the affairs of Earth. Nor in those of Narnia. I would be lost to them- and they to me.

'_I am going to die.'_

My throat closed in on itself- utterly shocking me out of my stupor, and causing my eyebrows to fly from their perch, my eyes to drown in an overwhelming flood of irrational fear.

'_It's only Death_,' I sternly berated myself, forcing myself to stare up at the white-washed ceiling of my cold dormitory, and blinking rapidly to stem my emotions, '_You've met Him on the battlefield too many times to so formally fear Him. He is a friend, and you know it. Be strong. You've practically invited Him: Stop. __**Crying!**__'_

"Hey-"

Blinking faster now, I perceived my brother as he reached out gently and warmly took hold of my shoulder.

"Hey, Ed?"

"Hey, Peter?" My tone was too low to emit its scratchy state.

"I will not allow it to come to pass, _Provis_," Peter said to me, his tone so forceful and so utterly fierce that I almost believed him, "I won't let that serpent come anywhere _near_ you." And then, to my terror, a hateful malice seemed to enter his characteristically soothing voice, "_I'll kill him_. The moment I find him. I swear-"

'-Stop it, Peter," I interrupted, my words stilted with clipped consonants, restrained by carefully evened breaths, "Stop trying to swear murder for me. It's a prophecy, Peter. It's going to happen. There's nothing either of us can do."

"I don't accept that!" he argued, "You read the last page: Susan said we can use it to prepare-"

"-Just like Jadis prepared for us?" I jerked from his grip and stood, beginning to pace in agitation, which only served to further uproot me from the calm, indifferent state that I had hoped to engage. It didn't help matters when Peter stood to block my path, either. "A prophecy is a truth that will come to pass. Not a guess. It isn't speculation. It isn't a prediction that can be avoided just because you know about it. It's _Aslan's Word_. And His Word says that _I'm going to_-!"

"-**DON'T!**" Peter yelled, startling me as he clapped his hands over his ears and backed away from where I stood, frozen. Damp paths formed over the edges of his prominent cheekbones. A small, faintly darker spot on the edge of his sweater caught my eye as well. "Don't say it again! I can't bear it! _Please_ don't say it again!"

We stood, rooted, about two meters apart; the only sound in the small room seemed to be the unsteady breathing of my High King, and the painful, erratic beats that thrummed in my ears. Faintly, I could detect distant voices of boys in the halls downstairs. Young voices. Innocent voices. Unaware of the choices that plagued the waking world in less fortunate homes. Less normal families.

"I can't-" Peter choked out, and my heart clenched agonizingly in my chest at his fulmination, "I can't kill you. I can't be the reason. I _can't_. I'd die-!"

"_One_ of us has to live, you realize," I was just as scared as he was. Now even more so, when I saw that something I considered perfectly natural was a potentially crushing blow to him. He was my role model, my key guidance in life, and to see such a reaction from him, to see him model fear where I would have liked him to be assuring, made me inexplicably angered, "You can't just _die_ because _I_ do. That's selfish! Who's going to take care of the girls? Who'll look after mum? There's more going on here than me dropping dead!"

Instead of the fight some part of me had silently hoped for in response to my pugnacious claims, Peter moaned brokenly and folded over, half kneeling, onto the floorboards, his fists twitching open and closed again, weakly pounding the ground in defiance, silent sobs shaking him to the tips of his fingers, "No…no…_no_…!"

And then my stomach rebelled against me, and I, too, was subject to a soul-felt, barely suppressed wail, slowly sinking down in front of Peter, desperately trying to remain in control of my own body, both cursing its weakness and marveling that it wasn't being torn to bits as I sat so feebly in the wake of this terrible, consuming premonition.

'_Aslan, give me strength to do as I must…Just let me see it out to the end…'_

I breathed in, disregarding my screaming flesh, and dizzily straightened my back out, some foreign force simultaneously compelling words from my quivering mouth; "I'm sorry."

Peter remained crumpled in front of me.

"I'm sorry I said that to you. It wasn't-" I paused, allowing a wave of nausea to pass over me, "It wasn't right. But neither...was your belief that I would hate you for what happens."

His head twitched a tad, possibly refuting my comment.

"I know you're afraid. We all are. But I can tell you, with all of the surety that lies in me, that _you will not be at fault_ for the outcome of Lucy's dream."

_'Oh-! How well I know that..._'

But my fellow king was not so reassured, and I switched tactics, scooting closer to him across the floorboards, moving so that I was resting my forehead completely into the curve of his jaw, not withdrawing or resisting when his arms flew dependently around me, crushing me into him with a strength unrivalled by any.

"_Cornar, mo jaden purst de tycoon blo traej, _[Peter, my death is not caused by you,]" At this, murmured though it was, my brother seemed to slacken in his frame,_"Ne de worthom saba minas mi traejen, mo Provis_. [Do not take such blame upon yourself, my brother.]_Mo Syr. _[My King.]_"_

"You-" he began, and was forced to stop by the mistrustful creaking giving way in his voice, beginning again in the Old Language, as I had, "_Traej lo my baske Provis _[You are my only brother]," he pressed a kiss to my temple, his touch so light I barely felt its warmth blossom against my skin, "_Mo familiam eyot _[My closest/dearest friend]," and another whisper of sunlight tapped against my brow. Then, slowly, he gently pushed me away from him, and caught up my face in both of his hands, tears freely running from his eyes.

"_Cornar felti traej_ [I love you]."

My face split into a rare, wide smile, and I felt the flooding horrors that were tears finally erupt from behind the sluice of my eye, soon covering a worn trail down my cheeks, some slipping (salty and bitter) into my grinning mouth, as I took in the sight of my loving, _living_ brother.

"_La Pronae felti traej_ [And I love you]."

Smiling grimly, Peter exhaled in careful, measured, way- preparing himself, "So, you understand why I'm going to be a bit more…watchful of who comes around you, right?"

I understood, but I hated the idea of Peter having to constantly trailing me. It was worrisome- for the both of us- and when my dearest king had attempted the act so many times in our distant (and not so distant) past, it usually turned out to be MY job to make sure HE didn't break his own neck from trying to guard me.

Shifting, I made to open my mouth with some sort of denial of needing a watchdog-

-Shifting, the warmth of Peter's hand was only pressed more firmly to the side of my neck, and I could feel the echo of my heartbeat resound from the steady palm that rested so reliably above my jugular.

And as I shifted, the movement caught up the threads of an ancient time, and I was struck by a memory, as it bloomed from the spot where Peter's warmth was sinking fast into my flesh:

'_Jeistha, Provis…'_

_My High King shuddered again, close to crying, and I myself found an indescribable urge to lose my own breakfast, as I slowly came to the terrible comprehension that the shreds of Ogre skin that littered the slope were the **only** remains of my would-be killer._

_Peter, my gentle, overly-patient big brother, who still found difficulty in resisting Lucy and me when we set our minds to doing something, had mercilessly torn the dull, Blood-Possessed demon to bits._

'_Sorry…'gauntleted hands reached upwards to grip the bare one I had lain across the nape of his neck, originally hoping that the natural coolness of it would somehow calm the frenzied heat rising in my brother's flushed skin, 'Sorry…sorry…'_

'_Don't be sorry. You have saved Narnia the wrath of her oppressors.'_

_Another shiver. Another 'Sorry.'_

_I stooped to kiss his brow, slipping my hand around to thumb gently over his pulse- it was fluttering wildly, just like a baby Bird._

'_Come, Peter. Let's get you back home…'_

'…_Wait…'_

_I stilled, keeping my forehead pressed reassuringly against his, closing my eyes as he wrestled a glove off, and timidly elevated it next to MY pulse, seemingly hesitating just above it, I could feel the heat from his hand radiating upon it, inches apart though we were. But he did not come any closer- Afraid to confirm or deny my whether I was truly alive, or a mere phantom of torment, come to molest what little sanity he had regained. _

_"Peter," my mouth said, its intended berate smothered against a neck still twitching with remnants of adrenaline, "I'll not leave you."_

_With a throaty sob that I could feel the full effects of, when so closely held against him, he drew me closer yet. And for the next hour, as he simply sat and tabbed my pulse, and I, his breathing, with my guard shifting around us to prevent another onslaught of unsuspected foes, I felt the final dawning of my gift, and was exposed to the full measure of my life's duty..._

I grabbed his hand and sensibly slapped it over my neck, feeling him start against me.

"Ed…"

"Do you feel that, My Liege?"

We were silent again, and his fingers found the familiar nook where he often checked my well-being, when he thought I was sound asleep.

"…Yes." His voice was wondering.

"Good. Do you know what it means?"

His eyes closed peacefully, by way of answer, golden lashes brushing one last tear from the corner of his iris. It fell, pure and undefiled, like a falling star from his face, disappearing into the black abyssal canvas of his uniform sweater. When he opened his eyes again, they were clear.

"Never change, Edmund."

My smile sobered slightly.

"_Pronae lai encentras dan 'Pronae'_ [I will always be 'the Protector']."

* * *

"Is he really that fast? By gum-! What I wouldn't give to see that!"

Macintosh, Self-Elected Pevensie Expert, was in his element at dinner that night, as Jacobs relayed to him the events of that morning in stilted, grudging detail. Up and down the table, other boys listened surreptitiously in on the exchange, each of them hoping to find some piece to the complex puzzle that remained the Pevensie brothers. Thus far, only Thomas had been able to fit a few of the clues together- and for this he was (on the inside, at least) fervently admired.

For instance: it was through Macintosh, that Hartbee's School for Young Men learned of their financial situation.

What a shock it had been- to find that the boys with the most regal bearing in the entire school were, in reality, dirt-poor! It certainly explained some matters to them. Like why Edmund Pevensie hadn't the means to scrape enough money together to buy another uniform when he out-grew his old one. What was a few hundred pounds to they? The elite class raised with golden rattles and silk nappies? Apparently, though, it could buy quite a bit, in other parts of England. Imagine- they couldn't even afford a summer home! Poor devils! It seemed like they were holding up all right without one, for the moment.

It was also through Macintosh that the Young Men had learned of the Pevensie brother's close relationship with the mysterious Pevensie _sisters. _Oh, what a hoot that had caused! The idea that two chaps with such perfect marks, and such utter magnificence could have female relations was quite appealing, in particular, to a few of the older grades.

No one had quite garnered the courage to ask the pair about their sister's social status, as of yet...And after seeing Peter and Edmund whiz through the more exerting of gymnasium exercises with barely affected breathing only encouraged a few of the less valiant blokes to weed themselves out in a right hurry.

Oh, yes. Without Macintosh, the Pevensies might have remained a forgotten wonder in the darkest corner of the school gossip. But it was thanks to him that the two were constantly dragged into conversation to be beaten and poked from every angle, each boy searching desperately for a flaw, or a hint at who these teacher's pets could actually be.

But only, of course, when the brothers were conveniently absent.

"Shh!" hissed one, jerking his eyes warily at the hall doors as two stately figures walked through, "They finally showed up!"

A tizzy of movement as the table attempted to arrange itself into a far less conspicuous conversation topic, each avoiding looking up to meet the stern gazes of the in-humans.

Well, all except one.

"Pevensie!" Thomas Macintosh cried out jubilantly, cheerfully ignoring the panicking looks and hurried "Shut up!s'" that flew viciously towards him, instead waving as the pair looked curiously over, "Come sit here, mates!"

The brothers exchanged glances, and seemed to come to a wordless consensus, gliding over to sit- side by side- next to the instigator.

"Hello," the one called Peter said, "My name is Peter Pevensie," he leaned a fair head to his right hand side, gesturing to the darker boy who sat quietly next to him, "This is my brother, Edmund."

"'Lo," a few of the others muttered, by way of greeting.

"Here, have some Sup- I daresay the food hasn't gotten too cold," Macintosh said happily, relishing the chance to observe the pair up close as he passed them a few of the better dishes, "Why were you chaps so late to dinner, anyway?"

A sudden, heavy chill sweapt over the group, and each of the boys felt a distinct weight drop onto their chests. The Pevensies stilled, each carefully taking small portions of the main course to their plates, though the thin shoulders of Edmund looked far straighter and drawn than they had when he had first sat down, and his brother was still pleasant in his demeanor, though it certainly contained its own temperature now-

Peter smiled politely at them, blue eyes seeming to cool visibly as he finally spoke at length, "We received a letter and wished to read it thoroughly."

That was all he said, and no one dared continue on in that vein of questioning, a shared shuddered shaking the table's residents.

"How were tryouts?" Another blurted, curiousity pushing him from sanity, "Jacobs said you were the fastest one there!"

Could it be? Embarrassment? Alas! The Pevensie's were prone to normal emotions! The group watched in collective amazement as the younger brother turned a delicate shade of red.

"I...did come in first for the laps," it was murmured low, and the boys strained to hear a soft, reflective accent clipping his speech, "Though I had to work hard to get to that point. Peter helped."

Peter allowed him a smile- one far warmer than the smile preceding it.

Jacobs startled them with a heart-felt scowl and an ill-placed comment, "Come off it- if you're _really_ the fastest, then just say it and be done with it. You can add it to the list. The smartest. The fastest. Though," here he laughed mockingly, "I'm sure I could have beaten you if I'd actually tried."

"If you believed that," Edmund said, looking at him with something only _clearly_ defined as curiosity, "then why didn't you?'

Jacobs said nothing, glaring straight into the younger boy's eyes until a rather broad shoulder blocked his line of sight.

"Not exactly model behavior for soon-to be team mates," Peter tapped a fork against his plate, eliciting a peculiarly ominous ringing against the fine china, and the room temperature seeming to, once again, decline at a decidedly rapid pace.

"Quite right," Edmund agreed, "You interrupted me before I could tell you that I'm only the _second_ in school."

"Second?" a boy named Watson Litt pondered.

"To Peter," the other assented, and threw a grin to his (By Gum!) blushing older sibling.

"To Peter," said blushing brother asserted, shooting a harsh look at the still-glaring Cain, "And ONLY to Peter."

In the awkward moment that followed, Cain made as if to open his mouth and say something. Something very stupid. Something that would likely have rendered him with a busted lip from five very sturdy, tanned knuckles for days to come. But instead of an bellicose comment from the (not yet fattened) lips of the school delinquent, the courtyard clock issued seven mighty gongs from its bells, and the entire table leaped up, eager to escape.

"See you in class, Pevensies!" Macintosh called delightedly, whipping a hand through the air by way of parting, and dragging his stubborn friend behind him, "We should do this more often!"

* * *

**A/N: *bows low* I was late in updating. Again. For this I apologize most thoroughly. UNfortunately, however, there are still a few more weeks of school, until I am free to write EVERY DAY, whenever I please. Therefore, in answer to the alarming number of PM's received: NO. I AM NOT quitting. Not the story. Not the fandom. Nada. I intend to keep working until this story is finished, and then CONTINUE to pump out the story ideas until I drop. **

**More clues! They were really flying in this chapter. If you're to the point where you're pulling out your hair- you're at the right point. ^_^ In a few chapters, things will start shaping up nicely for you all. Never fear! Conclusions are in sight. Just not THE Conclusion. ;D That would be disheartening.**

**In hopes your summers begin well, and that work refrains from its typical heckling manner, if only for a while.**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

**New Vocabulary:**

**Effete- to render null and void.**

**bellicose- war-like, eager to fight**

**fulminate- to protest loudly and bitterly**

**sluice- a sliding gate that controls the flow of water**

* * *


	13. Thirteen: Piffle Extrapolated

**P.E**

**Chapter Thirteen: Piffle Extrapolated**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: Oh, Mr. Lewis- the things I have done, and have yet to do, to your darling characters…**

* * *

_"A man finds joy in an apt reply- and how good is a timely word!" Proverbs 15:23_

* * *

Ms. Dupree looked up from her typing of the monthly parent update to peek over the edge of wired spectacles, a distinct crease drawing a line across the weathered slip of forehead visible behind permed bangs. Upon receiving no more caution from the entering student than an impertinent glance, she released a vexed huff and struck the "Enter" key with rather unnecessary force.

"Mr. Collins is in his office, Mr. Jacobs. Please sit until he can see you," she rapped out a few more lines of nonsensical fluff for fussy parents to draw relief from, whilst they lounged on their comfortable couches in their fireplace-warmed studies, and paused momentarily to point to a small wooden chair resting, almost hidden from view, beside the doorway.

Jacobs scowled, fists deep in his pockets.

"I think he can see me now-" and, muttered, "-_since that's what he was sooo insistent about_."

"I think he can see you when he's ready," the older lady retorted, and picked up an ink pen to stab at the poor little chair in the corner, "_Sit_."

With another scowl, the boy slouched his way to the chair and, grouchily, sat on its arm.

The chair groaned miserably.

"Children come and go from this office more than ever," continued Ms. Dupree in a low grumble, "I'll never understand what happened to make this generation so _insufferable_."

Cain appeared positively sanguinary, but was, thankfully, relieved of living up to his namesake by the explosive arrival of Headmaster Collins who, true to form, opened the door to his office with as much fanfare as he could possibly muster with his energetic methods.

"Ah! Mr. Jacobs! Hope you haven't been waiting too long, young sir?"

"I shouldn't have had to wait at all."

Collins forced a very loud guffaw.

"Cheery as ever, I see! Ms. Dupree, please excuse Cain. He's not been feeling to well of late. Something about the status of his grades." And he gave the last word a certain lilt of emphasis, causing the boy to stiffen and drill him with the nastiest look one could imagine, his jaw clenching to bolt down the even nastier comments that scraped at the back of his lips, wanting desperately to dig into the man calmly gripping his left shoulder.

"Apologize to Ms. Dupree, Cain."

The hand grew tighter, if only fractionally so.

"..._Sorry_."

"There's a lad," Collins soothed, and smiled broadly, proudly even, at the young man trembling with rage next to him, "Let's go into my office, shall we? After you, then."

Cain stomped into the small room, hating its order and collections, but not quite daring to pursue their destruction with such a dangerous owner lurking in the same space as he, with heavy black robes that forced Collins to wedge himself into the seat of his own chair- pinned between two plush armrests and sinking quickly into the slippery leather backing.

"Your report?" asked the principal, the easy-going facade clattering to the polished floor beneath them, and Cain barely managed to sit in the chair opposite before the question was open-fired, "How goes the watch?"

Cain worked his jaw muscle while he organized his thoughts.

"Something's up. They got a letter a few days ago from their sisters at Saint Finbar's."

"The school taught by nuns?"

"Yeah. That one. It sounded..." he hesitated, "...like one of their sisters is psychic or whatever."

Collins perked up, dark eyes seeming oddly lit, a faint flush filling the pallor of his cheekbones, but waited with intense silence for his student spy to continue.

"They kept talking about how she had a dream, and mentioned all of these weird names. 'Jadis.' 'Aslan.' Then they started spewing that weird gibberish of theirs. It sounded like they were both crying, too."

The last was given with great disgust, but didn't affect the headmaster in the least, instead, his face had begun to glow feverishly, a genuine, eerie, smile cracking his wide face straight across. Bleached teeth gleamed strangely in the coal-black hair and fired skin.

"Aslan? Jadis? Did they, perhaps, mention another name? Or even a place?"

"They mentioned a lot," Jacobs said disdainfully, secretly harboring a sinking feeling as Collins grew more and more animated, then let loose the largest chunk of information, reporting flatly; "They were saying that Edmund Pevensie was going to die."

Collins stilled at the development, smile frozen solid, "Soon?"

There was something about the way he said it, with such utter calm and normalcy, that made Cain sit back from the entire situation at hand. The 'Soon?' was so cold in its address, it allowed the boyish, good-natured mask to come undone for a moment, and revealed a corrupting, carefully cultivated, generalized hatred for all existence. In that "soon" Cain felt an icy thrill and withdrew within himself, mind reeling in his second, far more intense, recognition that he was dealing with a scoundrel in an Englishman's clothing.

"They...they don't know when it's going to happen."

Collins sank back into his chair and appraised the suddenly-wary student before him, not missing the way the boy's legs bent beneath his chair, prepared to spring up at any moment.

Placating him with a far more genteel smirk, Collins took out a large notepad and fountain pen, laying them neatly on the desk.

"Start from the beginning," he ordered, one hand fiddling with the silver chain draped from his neck, "And make sure you don't leave anything out, Mr. Jacobs."

Feeling the oppressive, very real, threat weighing down the gently spoken direction, Cain, for a rare change, did as he was told.

OoOoOoOoO

After Peter had told me of the letter, something began to change between us.

It was not, per se, an unexpected change. Rather, the shift in our relationship seemed to take on the same air as when I had first been stolen away in the dead of night by our beloved General, and borne unto the tents of which my new life was to be birthed. Just as that night (and the many weeks following it), Peter did not know how he was to act around me.

There seemed to be a heavy sort of awkwardness that hung about us now. Oh, there was love- to be sure! Neither of us doubted the other in _that. _But as to what our roles now were- how we were to watch out for one another when each of us realized it may very well be over soon- was now a very skewed and jumbled idea of what had once been incontestable Law. Perhaps because we both realized our sacred mantra of "back-to-back and side-to-side" would not be enough to halt the progression of this unseen instigator of my death, even though it had saved both of our lives innumerable times, as we had been Kings of Narnia.

'_My death…'_

The fearful anticipation had not yet worn off, for me. And I worried that Peter was no better off than I- My heart-felt declaration of devotion to him doing nothing more than momentarily freezing the flood of thoughts and nightmares and agonies that stemmed from his ever-brilliant imagination. He was tiring from this constant strain, from wondering if anything he did could stop my departing.

How ironic- it seemed our roles had reversed, if only for a while.

"Pevensie!"

But my furious mulling on the subject was distracting me from the task at hand.

I turned just in time to catch the lateral pass, fingers gripping the stinging leather as cold bit at their pads, pouring molten frustrations into my legs while the sharpened tips on the bottom of my cleats murderously shredded the grass from the earth beneath me, and as my terror gave me the strength to fly down the pitch. Dancing around any who opposed my path until I finally reached the edge, I slammed the ball back against the plush green surface with all the power I could muster.

'_Too easy.'_

"Point! Black team!" Hamilton's whistle cleared the air, stirring groans from the white team, who all straggled- panting- to the center to restart the play.

"Nice job, Pevensie!" Watson Litt called, throwing him a thumbs-up, "Keep up the good work!"

I nodded, but was already concentrating on how to best weave around the sweaty, haggard children lined in weary opposition against my colors (or non-colors, as the case may be) with the least amount of effort.

Instead, a whistle sounded again, and we all turned to blink at our coach in surprise, for he very rarely, if ever, signaled a respite. Even in the event that one of us was injured (as Jay had proved humanly possible on an almost-daily basis), the rotund coach preferred to have us continue racing each other on, leaving the brittle boy to the side to be patched up.

"Pevensie! You get a break!" He turned on the team with demonic vivacity, "The rest of you- show me some _real_ running or you'll get to practice later around the track!" A few paled and skittered back across the pitch at a dead run, taking the ball with them.

"But I can keep playing," I insisted, feeling plenty of feverish energy ready to be released in my singing muscles, "I'm not even tired yet."

"It's not me that pulled you out, Brunette,' Hamilton said with a scowl, and shrugged towards the stands, where I caught sight of a rather sheepish, albeit stubborn- looking, Peter sitting next to his med-bag and a small pile of medical journals from the school's library, "Doctor's orders."

I snorted, planting my hands on my hips in disgruntlement.

"Peter's not a doctor_, yet_."

"All the same, it'd probably be smart to do as he says, Pevensie." He paused, seemed to soften slightly in his countenance, and said in a partially less-gruff tone, "Let him check on you, eh? It's not often enough that brothers will do that."

'_Often enough for mine.'_

"Yes, sir, Mr. Hamilton," I said aloud, and silently berated myself for such thoughts. My brother was trying to keep me fit, in his own way. I should, at least, humor him in that.

It would keep him healthy, too.

Shaking off my black jersey and depositing it in the amorphous pile next to the benches, I jogged towards the stands to plop down, a row below my king, tilting back my head until I was viewing him upside-down. He smiled hesitantly back from the gold filigreed clouds above the earth, it seemed, at my irked demeanor. But it was I that, at length, spoke the first words.

"Pulled rank after all, eh? My liege?"

"I wasn't 'pulling rank,'" Peter insisted, opening his med-bag in search of words, "I was…making sure you didn't, um…"

"Over-exert myself?"

"Yeah," he said softly, rummaging slowly around bandages and pill-capsules, "It looked like you were doing all of the work out there."

"I was," I retorted, closing my eyes, "I liked it."

He stopped moving around, and when he spoke, it was clear from the sound of his wavering voice that he had turned to face me head-on.

"You _like_ wearing yourself into the ground?"

"I _like_ trying to be _better_ than I am. I _like_ trying to _grow_ in my abilities." _I like trying to be like you._

Intense silence followed my statement. Things unsaid, truths hidden in our hearts for so long were surfacing, boiling just beneath a quivering layer of denial. I knew- _I could feel_- Peter trying to answer me, in some way or another. A word. A touch. A gesture. But to say something in reply, was to, on some level, admit the cruelest truth of all. He didn't want to believe I was going to die. He didn't know how much I was dying, seeing him so. I might as well have already _been_ dead, the way we were acting towards each other.

The words, 'save it for later' floated across the landscape of my mind, but I shoved them away from me, not finding myself any more prepared to bridge that gap than my brother was.

"…I wrote the girls," Peter finally stated, and my eyes flew open, disbelievingly watching him stare down the roll of bandages he was tenuously winding around his hands.

"And?"

"I told them what you thought. About Lucy's dream."

Now fully alerted to the gravity of the situation, I sat completely erect, and spun in place to look him in the eye. But it would seem he was not ready to face me, nor my immense disfavor, continuing to wind the bandages into neat, circular cylinders around the curve of his flattened hand, his eyes, always intense in their ability to stupor the most mordant of wits, contained a woe that left me without retort. Only the oddly compelling urge to yell allowed a low whisper to escape my throat.

"How do you think…Will they take it well?"

Peter flashed a crisp iris in my general direction, "Our sisters are not well known to accept death threats addressed to their loved ones."

It was true. Many a hot-winded man had fallen to the clever power that was the sisterhood of Valiant and Gentle. Narnian women are, after all, the most capable of their gender. And Lucy and Susan were the ones who helped rule over them- what did that say?

"We should have waited to tell them," I insisted sullenly, wrapping my arms around my knees and aiming my sight on the squabbling children that meandered about the pitch. Even from this distance, their conversations were considerably clear to my ears; most of them were composed of foul language and talks about the teachers they hated the most, "We should have waited until we figured something out. Like how it's going to happen."

Peter's hands slipped on their winding.

"We already know that part. The dream…"

"Some of it could have been symbolic. Like the poison. Maybe it's a warning about how bad the food here is for our health."

It was a foul joke- The food here was cuisine and the attempt to lighten such a subject with my brother, of all people, was a clumsy and pointless feat. Neither of us laughed, and Silence began her reign, hovering uncomfortably behind our necks, her breath hot, her very presence alarming.

What was to become of us? If we continued on in this mutual treatment? With both our hearts and minds suddenly and completely grid-locked from the other? What happened to telling my big brother _everything?_

Oh, yes- I had ended that quite some time ago. But it was rather unsettling to be on the receiving end of it.

Peter sighed heavily;

"Ed-"

_'You know, you've always been there...'_ whispered a memory, softly tapping at the back of my mind, but a sense of hopelessness seemed irredeemably connected with it, and I so I reacted forcefully, wanting_ anything _but that sense residing in my thoughts

"-I'm going to hit the showers," I interrupted quickly, twisting to my feet, back to him, "I doubt Hamilton will put me back in today. See you."

I made to step forwards, to leave him behind, but a sudden, urgent, powerful grip on my shoulder stopped me dead in my tracks;

"_Edmund_," the nakedly helpless edge to his voice cut straight across already throbbing mass of tightly conjoined pains in my heart, "_I'm trying_." Trying to come to terms. Trying to forgive himself. Trying to love me while he could. Trying to honor Aslan's wishes, however much they destroyed his own. My brother was _trying_, and that alone instilled far more confidence in me than I could have honestly hoped for.

Gently, I brought my hand up and covered the far larger one that already perched there, willing for him to know just how much that meant to me.

"_Ka traej lai athos _[Then you will succeed]. _Mo provis._"

I had never known my brother to fail.

* * *

**A/N:**

**It's been far too long! School's going to kick it after Tuesday, and I can hardly wait for it! Let me tell you...**

**This chapter had far more input from Cain than we're used to, so I hope that his usage in the chapter wasn't too terrible. Especially for the readers who absolutely despise the lazy-schlump. ;D The main issue is that Collins now has a very accurate source to the Narnian side of the Pevensie brothers.**

**And he knows it. *nefarious laughter***

**We also saw quite a bit more of Edmund playing rugby with his team- to clear up any confusion, the boys were divided into "White" team and "Black" team so that they could practice. That's all. It's not their school colors and it's not their mascot, so don't worry. ^__^ I'll find something more creative than that.**

**What will Collins do with his information? Why does he want it in the first place? How will Edmund and Peter fare in the upcoming events? What is Edmund hiding from Peter? How will the girls react to Peter's letter? All will be revealed in progressive chapters! XD**

**Hope your summers are going well! Keep writing!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

**New Vocabulary:**

**piffle- nonsense**

**extrapolate- to estimate using the knowledge available**

**sanguinary- bloodthirsty or full of bloodshed**

**mordant- caustic (wit)**


	14. Fourteen: Propinquity Exhumed

**P.E**

**Chapter Fourteen: Propinquity Exhumed**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Narnia- but I have made several offers.**

* * *

_"Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you," Matthew 7:7_

* * *

"And do you know what she _said_?" came Sister Gastion's voice from within the Headmistress' office, its pitch close to piercing the glass that divided the well-lit, handsomely furnished interior from the gloomy, Spartan-accommodated waiting room, where Lucy Pevensie morosely sat, determinedly avoiding the alluring urge to twiddle her thumbs.

There was a murmured comment from the Headmistress, a demure, yet powerful, tone that Lucy found rather pleasing. Much like that of Susan when she was older- or younger, if you wanted to be complicated. Just hearing it simultaneously managed to calm and alert the young lady, filling her with a sense of purpose unlike any other that the world could dare offer her.

She readjusted herself in the chair with a barely-contained sigh.

_'Susan...'_

The gorgeous girl was probably worrying herself sick by wondering where her little sister had gotten off to. That is to say, if her older sister hadn't already figured out her whereabouts from the other girls in her class. St. Finbar's was, after all, notorious for its wildfire gossip. Whisper a secret in your best friend's ear, and the entire school would know it by the end of class.

Not that what had happened had actually_ been _a secret, Lucy mused idly.

"Well, send her in," the low voice hummed pleasantly, causing poor Lucy's heart to leap with a dreadful mix of measured anxiety and carefully observed hope, "And we shall see." The door next to the thick glass swung grandly open to reveal the self-righteous expression of Sister Gastion, who sniffed and sort of jerked her head to the inside of the office.

"Am I to come in now?" asked Lucy delicately, her agitation with the woman not quite worn, but her desire to do right overwhelmed her bruised (and, as Peter would say, "barely existing") pride, giving her an edge of maturity. One the Sister would need fifteen years to establish.

Sister Gastion seemed to catch herself in the midst of the act of brutish sign-language, pursed her lips, and shifted the head movement into a stern nod.

"Yes," she emended.

"Thank you," knowing, from years of dealing with stiff-necked politicians, that regality was an important key to hushing their accusations, Lucy slipped gracefully from the sparse chair, alighting to her feet as a bird alights to the air, and glided from her seat passed her teacher into the room. Anything to escape the morgue-like setting of the waiting area.

"Miss Pevensie," the Headmistress greeted her instantaneously, waving at a chair before her desk, "Please make yourself comfortable."

"Thank you," she said again, and as Lucy settled herself, she allowed her eye to take in the fair visage of the woman seated across from her.

Mother Renee was, like Sister Gastion, robed in the same warm, black garments that made up their winter-wear nun habit. She was, overall, dressed in a perfectly insipid manner, though the slightly more ornamental cross that dangled from the Mother's neck caused the Sister's to seem incongruously gaunt in comparison. Leaf-like patterns twined fleetingly around the faint etching of a man with his arms fanned out on either side, with the tips of his fingers just grazing the tip of a single gold-gild leaf. The older lady (for she was at least fifty, if not older than that) had (somewhat) tucked the graying wisps of her curling hair up into the black drapes of her headpiece, the only evidence of her experience, aside from the deep wrinkles that framed her mouth and eyes from years of laughter and firming sunlight. She was, Lucy thought to herself, a very handsome lady for one so up in her years. And somehow, it seemed the distinct aging process that was intended to lighten and dull the eyes of the elders had missed Mother Renee altogether- her eyes were as deep a blue as Peter's, if not deeper. So dark a blue, in fact, they seemed almost like the night sky.

'_She must be a very sweet, old dear," _Lucy surmised wryly_, "Not a single frown has been thrown at me since I came in!'_

But a sideways peek at Sister Gastion told a completely differentiating story.

"I do hope you teach young Miss Pevensie a thing or two about respect!" the lady said loudly, as though Lucy was not in the room at all, and ignoring her glance with obviously practiced concentration, "Since she doesn't seem to know that God commands all children to be obedient to their betters!"

Lucy gave her a scrutinizing look, but said nothing.

"Sister Gastion," the Mother murmured, "I do believe Sister Margaret mentioned that the pair of you were put in charge of preparing supper tonight? Why don't you go ahead and get a head-start on that?"

"But Mother-!" she looked pointedly to Lucy, who stared pointedly back.

"I shall be perfectly equipped to deal with this young woman, Elizabeth." Mother Renee fingered her cross pensively, now directing all of her attentions to the small figure seated before her, who was still suffering the light-headed euphoria of being addressed as a "young woman." Not a "child" or a "little girl-" but as a young _woman!_

"You may leave now," came the final say from the Head mistress, and (in a flurried fit of her dark habit) Sister Gastion stormed from the office with only a 'Behave yourself!' aimed at the young Queen, before the handsome, oaken door swung shut behind her.

"Now," Mother Renee said, and Lucy turned back around in her seat to meet her entrancing gaze, "What is it that occurred in your classroom, Miss Pevensie, between you and the Sister? Please...Start with the beginning."

'_But that would mean going at least ten years into the past, wouldn't it?'_ a small voice whispered dully from the tight ache in her chest. Lucy brushed her hand lightly across it, shaking her head to straighten her thoughts.

"I- we- were in the middle of an embroidery lesson, Mother, and I've never been any good at it, to be honest." And how Susan was a valid testimony to _that_. "When the Sister saw my work she was…" Lucy searched for a bland term that would not make her appear to be accusing the woman, "…Not _pleased_ with my performance. She made a few comments that I disagreed with, and when she disagreed with my disagreements, things all began to go downhill. I suppose I should have held my tongue."

Surprisingly enough, the Mother didn't jump to agree with that statement.

"What sort of comments did the Sister make, Miss Pevensie?"

"She wondered why I didn't put more work into the task so that I would be practiced enough to decorate linens and such for my future husband. And when I told her I never intended to marry, she told me that I should imagine I was doing the work for God instead, since I was obviously meant to become a nun," Lucy couldn't contain the wrinkle that scrunched her nose up into her face, "But, to tell the truth, Mother, I don't exactly intend to join a convent either."

"And you expressed this sentiment to Sister Gastion?"

"I did."

"Well," Mother Renee sighed hopelessly, "the Sister is the type of woman to want you to fit into one stereotype or another. She's very precise about how she divides people."

"'Nun' or 'wife'? I must say that neither choice appeals to me."

"Then what will you do?" Mother Renee wondered aloud, and Lucy was again filled with a thrill of excitement. There was simply something about the wizened woman. Something different from all the other grown-ups...Something else. And whatever it was, it made Lucy feel as though another adult was actually taking her seriously for the first time in...Aslan-! It must have been at least a year since she'd last seen her friend, King Caspian.

"I shall work independently," Lucy stated firmly, "and live in a house paid for by myself. I may decide to live completely on my own, or maybe with my-" the euphoria, at once, vanished into nothing, "-My siblings…"

When Lucy's voice trailed quietly off and her small shoulders fell forwards like a fragile shield over her chest, Mother Renee shifted in her seat so that she could closely evaluate her.

"...Sister Gastion was not the main reason for your irritation. Was she, Miss Pevensie?"

The ache easily swelled to a flaring, gaping wound and Lucy shuddered, clenching her fists to pummel back the pressure drowning her eyes.

"No, ma'am."

A soft look stole upon the withered face, and an even gentler tone asked, "Your family, then?"

Bull's-eye.

Though the sudden and alarming desire to bawl took the Valiant Queen's interest by storm, the deeply-instilled, time-hardened resolution to act her age (her _true_ age- not what the rest of England seemed to think about her) violently smothered it beneath its hand.

'_Have faith!' _the small voice whispered,_' Aslan isn't done with you yet- just trust Him, and everything will work out. It always works out...'_

"My brother-" Lucy began, then stopped herself.

Exactly _how_ did one explain their magically-associated circumstances to a woman of the faith? Or even one _not_of the faith, for that matter? What sane adult (besides Professor Digory Kirke, who knew all about magic) would bother listening to the fantastic stories of a seemingly twelve-year-old girl? Who, after listening, would even believe it? Fear suddenly welled up from its cold, hidden spring into the pit of her stomach, her tiny flicker of hope hissing and spitting painfully as the seeping misery determinedly attempted to snuff it out completely.

Across from her, Mother Renee tilted her head ever so slightly to her right shoulder, the movement causing a strangely soothing rustling from her apparel. Almost like the rustling of feathers- or of wings.

"Your brother? Is he ill? Or simply going through a challenging time? Speak up, Miss Pevensie. You can tell an old woman what's troubling you. Don't run from your fears, my dear."

'_Run not from one fear...' _Peter's words resonated the lullaby in her mind, his deep tones ringing out altruistically from a distant memory, and Lucy looked up again. She couldn't have been in a worse pinch- not wanting to lose her newly found credibility with this woman (her possibly _only_ English ally) before she even managed to leave the office. But if there was the one chance...The even _slightest_ of possibilities that Mother Renee could help in some way or another...

_'Biaxs mi Lan...'_ her brother continued, softly now, with the ghost of his fingers brushing wisps of hair from her eyes, '_Biaxs mi Lan...' _

_'If she could save Edmund...'_

"Mother!" Lucy fairly exploded, twisting her skirt between her hands with anxiety, "Do you believe that God can warn you of something before it happens?"

"Is that was this is about?" by her facial expression, Lucy could tell she was just as surprised at her outburst as she, herself was, and she rubbed a translucent thumb over her mouth to straighten her wrinkles out from a tempting smile, "You know there are prophecies in the Good Book, yes?" At Lucy's nod, the elderly lady folded her hands over her desk and continued in low, slow tones, "I want you to understand, Lucy Pevensie, that I myself have never personally heard such a message. Those that have, I believe, are among the blessed."

"'Blessed'? Even if it's warning against something bad?"

"Especially if it's warning against something bad," Mother Renee finally let her mouth curve upwards into a gentle smile, "My sister used to tell me that the Lord once spoke to her, you know."

"Really?" despite herself, Lucy felt an inkling of joy at the very idea, "What did He tell her?"

"It was more of an obvious-answered question than anything. My sister had been working part-time in a clothing factory, you see, a little while after the first war. I had offered her a small place just outside of the convent, but she had two small children to provide for, and couldn't get to work from there. I suppose she didn't realize we would have taken care of everything for her- she had always been independent. Anyway, not too soon after she declined out offer, her children were harmed in a rail-way accident. One died, the other was hideously scarred forever. When the doctors came to give her the news, my sister told me that she began sobbing out-right and praying to be saved with all of her might. Praying to save her child, praying to protect them, praying that her baby boy would get into heaven. She told me after the matter that she had been praying for what turned out to be three straight hours, when a still, small voice suddenly spoke to her…"

Lucy found herself leaning expectantly inwards, hands gripping the armrests in earnest.

"What? What did it say?" she asked breathlessly, and Mother Renee smiled broadly.

"He said, 'Sarah, am I God?' and she clapped her hands over her mouth and told Him 'Yes, sir!' Now isn't that something?" the elderly lady sighed happily and fingered her crucifix, "In less than five words He virtually told her that He could do anything, and would give her anything."

"Anything, hm?" Lucy fiddled with her skirt again, thinking furiously, "Mother Renee?"

"Yes, dear?"

Taking a deep breath, she lightly knocked on the wooded base of her armrest, and asked;

"Is there any way that I could, possibly, pay a visit to my brothers?"

OoOoOoOoO

"_Monochrome."_

"_Pardon?"_

_The Hag raised her one, good eye up to my face, and it was everything I could do to not look away from her ghastly, yellow, grinning teeth that clustered within her blood-red beak._

"_Monochrome. The combination of black and white. Bad and good. Darkness and light. It's the perfect word to describe the joining of two completely different elements to create a contrasting mood or pattern," she washed her gaze up and down my form, instigating thousands of goose-bumps to erupt on my flesh, "And it describes you amazingly well."_

_I licked my lips, nonchalantly backing up against a tall Ash tree that stood behind me._

"_How so?"_

"_Well, as one prime example, you are currently using the present darkness to attempt to hide yourself from me. A curious notion, to be sure, White-haired Child."_

"_But I'm blond," I blinked, only capable of saying the first, stupid words to pop into my head._

_The Hag merely threw back her head and shrieked in her mirth…_

OoOoOoOoO

_**CLANG!**__**...**__**CLANG!**_

The courtyard clock exclaimed the time proudly from its stationary place across the school grounds and I moaned wearily, the sound echoing strangely from where my head was bent, the vibrations of my larynx bouncing around almost gleefully within the gleaming, porcelain bowl.

'Ugh,' was all my typically witty mind could summon, and I weakly reached up with one hand and blindly pulled the gleaming lever down to do away with the sick floating inside the toilet, blearily watching it swirl into the unknown world of London plumbing.

Never, in all my weeks at this school, had I been so glad that no one shared a dorm with me.

I had explained the situation to Collins when I had first been offered the chance to study at Hartbee's School for Young Men, although the man had been rather dubious at the time. I had told him, flat-out, that it would be impossible for me to share a room with anyone, due to what my family's local physician called "night terrors"- a violent nightmare that was nearly impossible to wake the sleeper from. In Narnia, we called them "Roraithan," which essentially had the same definition.

Except, in Narnia, it was used as an _adjective_- and it was to describe the sleeper themselves.

I spat to diminish the sour flavour lurking in my taste buds and wiped excess vomit from my mouth with the back of my pajama sleeve, carefully pulling myself up with the solid aid of the wall, and painstakingly shuffling across the floorboards to my bed. Once there, I let my aching body collapse, face-first, onto the twisted sheets, not caring to tug them over me.

I hurt. My stomach was rebelling. My heart thrashed about in my chest. My lungs drew air tentatively. My hands screamed from where they had tried to throttle the (now) splintering bed post. My head spun and pounded and rocked and swayed and flared with such utter _agony_, that I couldn't concentrate on anything but it. Part of me wished the Roraithan would take me again.

A spike pierced my temple and I folded my face farther into the mattress, missing the presence of my older brother sleeping soundly only a few feet away. Deus- I'd have given my bleeding _arms_ just to have him in the general vicinity! To have him rush in with that terribly worried face and ask if I was alright. To have him tell me to buck-up and get on with it. Or maybe just to know that was capable of being near me. That he wasn't restrained or in trouble.

That he could hold his own without me there to protect him.

But in the past few weeks, since our last discussion, we'd only managed to spend less time with one another- the exact opposite of what each of us truly wanted, and we both knew it. I could see him watching me out of the corner of his eye during classes (probably because I, in turn, watched him) and try to be ready in the event of an injury during rugby (and no matter how hard I played, no one ever seemed able to maim me enough to need medical assistance).

I astonishingly missed all of his fussing.

A flame licked up my sides, curling me into myself as if I was nothing more than burning, blackening paper.

"I get it!" I hissed out, "I get it! I'm not protecting them right! I'm doing something wrong! So please! Tell me how to save them!"

Maces hammered my skull, the ringing in my ears increasing in pitch rapidly.

"I'm in the dark!" I cried, and I mean _literally cried_, too tired to give a fig either way, "I can't see where all of this is going! _PLEASE ASLAN!"_

'_Just look at this when you feel lonely, Edmund, and you'll think of home…'_

My eyes opened, the pain racing rampant around my body somewhat diminishing in light of the epiphany that struck me in a gentler, yet somehow far fiercer, way.

"Lucy," I breathed, and found I had the strength enough to slip down from my bed and crawl across the floor to my bag, pulling a wrinkled sheaf of artist paper from the front flap, not caring that my hand was rattling the picture around too hard to properly view it, its image already engraved in my mind's eye, "Aslan, why do you want me to see this again?"

'_Perhaps you missed something,_' a soft voice whispered in the back of my head, where the constant, crushing pressure was already waning, "_Perhaps it is to comfort you."_

But what could I have missed? It was the same image- the same miserable figure huddled hopelessly in the darkest corner of the coldest cavern. The same colours. The same ring of golden sunlight revealing a fine, green patch of dew-covered grass. The same artist. _'I think…_'

Frowning, I turned the paper over to look at the back, where I found Lucy had, indeed, signed her name in medieval-type font across the bottom.

But what I had missed, during the last times I had looked at it, was the title.

"'Hope Grows,' huh?" I whispered weakly, a grin twitching the corners of my mouth up, "Lucy, dear sister, I think you've been reading too many penny-dreadfuls again." But even a jest given with a full heart seemed crass to the moment, so I bowed my head over the painting, and fervently prayed for the safety and happiness of the ones I held most dear.

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**A/N: ****Hello and thanks to all who went on to read this chapter, the fourteenth of a hopeful many! The last installment received oodles of responses from several people, and I thank them all very much for taking the time and effort to do so. **

**The plot is mounting! Lucy is out on campaign to see her brothers, Peter and Edmund's awkwardness hasn't (yet ;D) been emended, and Edmund's feeling is growing in intensity, along with his night terrors! Something's definitely cooking…but who's the chef?**

**My only regret is that Peter's scene was about one-hundred and seventy words long. But get this- it's an excerpt from another multi-chapter story I'm planning to start putting up after P.E finishes. Those who guess the title get a cyber-cookie. Flavour of your choice. ;) And the scene DOES relate to the chapter, if only to reinforce some ideals.**

**I hope you enjoyed the chapter- if you find any mistakes (grammatical, spelling, factual, etc) please contact me. Any other issues with the chapter are also encouraged to be shared, so that they will not repeat in future updates.**

**Thanks again, from the bottom of my heart!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

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**New Vocabulary:**

Insipid- dull, ordinary, boring

Incongruously- inappropriately, absurdly, inconsistently

Propinquity- closeness (of a relationship), or of proximity, similarity

Exhume- to bring into light, especially after being hidden or unknown; to reveal


	15. Fifteen: Paragon Evoked

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**

P.E

**Chapter Fifteen: Paragon Evoked **

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: The only part of writing for this site that utterly bombs.**

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"_A fool gives vent to his anger, but a wise man keeps himself under control," Proverbs 29:11_

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James Matthew Collins, Headmaster of Hartbee's School for Young Men, graduate of the University of Oxford, and esteemed mind amongst the high-class education community, was institutionally insane.

Now, insanity wasn't exactly something about yourself that one went about and broadcasted to potential employers, nor, even, probable employ_ees_. If it didn't put a damper on the already fragile relationship, it would certainly invoke some sort of feelings that belonged to the family of Ill Will- a family that seemed to be rather too familiar to Mr. Collins' than could be considered fair. More than once, he had been accused of acting in a somewhat questionable manner, and was seriously interrogated until he yielded some sort of evidence to assist in his persecution.

Hence secondary schooling.

It had been a masterstroke, really. He could duck out from the radar of his former town; find a better job in the great, over-populated city of London. He would be able to keep up his work, easily avoiding the curiosity of easily distracted boys, who never, if ever, found interest enough in their teachers to delve into their personal lives. And any boy that _did_ could be easily brushed aside as an owner of one extremely overactive imagination. It was a position of power- something he desperately needed to achieve his goal.

'_A goal,' _Collins thought to himself, and leaned back into his high-back leather chair comfortably, _'that I may just have reached…' _

He smirked at nothing in particular, fingers restlessly toying with the sheaves of densely noted-upon papers. Photos of blurred figures, old records, personal accounts neatly printed on line upon line of diaries and journals, and the old, tarnished locket all lay before him, with the entire collection splayed haphazardly across the top of his desk in what appeared to be a disturbingly in-depth study.

Collins was insane- but that didn't mean that he wasn't frighteningly intelligent.

For months, after his superintendent had threatened to shut down the school- _his_ school!- and gave him the idea of starting a scholarship program to attract revenue and esteem for Hartbee's, Collins had leapt upon the task with all the creativity and cunning that his mind could offer.

Smart boys. He wanted the smartest young lads that he could find. They needed to be as different as possible from the rest of the rich brats that he typically held dominion over. The needed to have siblings, in order to add an extra measure of _pathos _to his cause. They needed to have relatives who were fighting over seas, for patriotism. They needed strong coordination, to appeal to crazed sports fanatics. They needed grace and humility, to entice the mothers who adored fawning over "poor dears." And, most importantly, they needed common sense, to talk to the ever-hounding media muckrakers.

Essentially:_ They needed to be __**perfect**_**.**

But surprisingly enough, no matter how hard he searched in all of London for just the boy to fit the task, there was simply not a perfect school boy to be found. It frustrated him, in several instances it almost brought him to the point of physical violence, but he was never one to give in so easily, and held himself in, waiting patiently. Watching the passing crowds hungrily…

Collins fanned the Search outwards.

Smaller towns, country communities, orphanages. He extended his Eyes to all of them, reeling in and scanning school records, examining home-life if their grades matched his quest for peerless feats. None of them made the cut, since there always seemed to be one thing- or maybe more than one thing- that put the entire ordeal on dangerously shaky grounds. Months of searching. Months of hysterical bouts and destroyed furniture. Months of insanity-

-And then, one day, he found that one boy.

The perfect boy.

And the one boy who happened to be perfectly desperate for the opportunity.

**OoOoOoOoO**

Sometimes, I wonder if my brother forgets how well I can read him.

Granted, _he _can read _anyone_, myself included. But to know that I am the only human in existence who can pin my flighty little brother down is a matter I consider of greatest accomplishment, for there was never a single soul in either our court or our home that could look at his stance, or his eyes, and possess an intimate understanding of why he does the rash things he does. Or why he says the mordant things he says.

But after what had passed, I quickly learned to.

That's why, as I half-sat and half-crouched next to the benches at his second rugby game, ready to jump at any given moment in case he needed my help, I could see beyond his intense concentration and typical competitiveness that shone through his stern brow, catching sight of a vulnerability that I could never bear to see in any of my siblings.

'_Edmund, mo provis, what in Aslan's Name are you doing to yourself?'_

My brother, younger though he may be, wasn't _supposed_ to be vulnerable. That's not who Ed is- or was, I suppose, since he'd been looking like that for weeks, ever since that blasted letter came-

-_TWEEEET!_

The ref wheezed into his silver whistle, signaling with his hand that Hartbee's had just successfully scored on King George's, and Jay, who had successfully made the position of team captain, punched a fist into the air, attempting to high-five a passing Cain, who ignored it and jogged straight past him without a second glance, his shoulder narrowly jostling Edmund's on his way by. Ed paused for only a second, just to turn and shoot an exasperated look at the darker boy, shook his head, and readjusted himself for the next play.

The Edmund Pevensie _I_ knew wouldn't have bothered even showing the _slightest indication_ of annoyance with the grumpy maggot.

There are no words in the English language- or even in the Old Narnian tongue- that can properly describe the way emotions are filtered through Edmund's countenance. If I were to even attempt such a feat, I would have to say that reading Ed is like reading the wind. (A rather pathetic example, to be sure, but the only one that seems to fit...)

You see, while we were growing up in Narnia, I came to recognize my brother as just another force of nature:

Edmund was all the things I never could be- devious, clever, stealthy, etcetera. Ed could fade into the background and never be found, the reason he went undercover as often as he did. Ed could be as gentle as a spring zephyr with Lucy and Susan one moment and turn into a typhoon of howling energy the next, in order to ward off the hundreds of ill-laced suitors that had come to call after them. He could churn up silent waters in the court, relieve stuffy, uncomfortable moments with a single, short, and gloriously welcome laugh, wear away at the most solid of debaters with a constant stream of biting arguments.

But he was not vulnerable- he was _uncontainable._

He never let his emotions be visible to people he did not trust with all of his heart, yet even _then_ I was capable of seeing how he felt. Like the wind, though one can't perceive it with their naked eyes, they can always see what it's affecting or how it's moving. And by watching where the wind blows, they may also know where it's coming from.

For us, Ed was Aslan-sent.

"_Come on, boys!"_ Hamilton bellowed out from my side, cupping his mouth with his palms and growing quickly flushed in his plump cheeks, "_Cream those sorry ingrates! Move your legs! Don't give me that look, Jacobs, or I'll have your sorry rump! Go! Go! __**Gooo!**__"_ He was, if possible, even louder than he had been at our first match.

I sighed and changed out the way my legs were crossed, noting the odd prickling beginning in my lower calf as nerves starved for blood were suddenly flooded with life and flared up beneath my skin, making it uncomfortable to put much weight onto the limb without feeling a million tiny needles pierce the flesh. Slowly massaging it with numbly-cold fingers, I shook my head and refocused my attention to the goings-on of the pitch again, effectively rattling unwelcome and saddening thoughts from my mind.

The day was absolutely dreary, with freezing rain occasionally falling onto the sleek black canvas of corporate umbrellas that blanketed the stands, slicking the glossed grasses of the pitch with its temperamental torrents, and mucking up the abused earth beneath, which was miserably pockmarked by miniature lakes and heavily mauled by the two team's spiked cleats.

The teams themselves were so soaked through with mud and rainwater that neither their faces nor their jersey numbers were identifiable, and the only way I could tell my brother from the rich young gentlemen around him was the fact that he was outstripping the lot of them by about ten meters. That, and the fact that his canines gleamed porcelain against his dirtied face every time Hartbee's scored on their opponents.

Hamilton suddenly cackled- yes, I said _cackled_- next to me, and I looked up in slight alarm.

"That blasted Palmer can't hope to win now," he offered by way of explanation, nodding at King George's disgruntled- and far thinner- coach in complete contentment, "We're up by too much and he doesn't have the time to pull a thing off. Brunette's just about won us the match."

I smiled.

And everything went horribly wrong.

A woman's scream echoed from within the stands, hundreds of fingers pointing out like some horrible apparition had leered at them from beyond, and, spinning away from the each other, Hamilton and I both looked to where the roiling crowd beckoned- the end of the pitch- just in the nick of time to see what must have been like a high-speed locomotive crash.

A slight, muddied figure tumbled forward through the air at a break-neck pace, though through my eyes it was almost like it watching from underwater, their head catching awkwardly sideways on the ground as they hit, the momentum mercilessly lifting their lower half up and over their neck, which, with the combined weight and pull of their limbs, caused their entire form to perform a sort of grotesque somersault in the slimy earth, sliding them along on their back for a meter more in the mud, other bodies tripping over the half-buried child as they attempted to run past. A few others were knocked off-balance by the sudden collapse, and were bowled over themselves by the racing team mates behind. Then all was still.

"_My __**God!**_"

The pitch erupted into noisy panic, people leaping to their feet to better see what was going on, women- mothers- loudly wondering if that was their child, if they were all right, fathers making comments about what a fall like that could do to a human- I blocked these out, only capable of watching as the referee signaled a halt in the game. A few boys were helped to their feet by the ones still standing. Coach Palmer and his assistants were scoping out the scene, scratching their heads and making frustrated gestures at the man in black and white. The player that had been hidden beneath the human hog pile had yet to rise.

The teams congregated around the figure, shuffling their feet, pointing at one another in confusion, their raised voices drowned by my eerily sedate thoughts.

'_That was Edmund…'_

A person grabbed my shoulder and turned me slightly to yell something in my face, pointing to the obscure, black bag resting at my side, shouting some sort of direction. When I did not immediately respond, they gripped me by the upper arm and hauled me- powerfully- to my feet, clutching the black bag in their other hand as they marched me across the muddied field and up to the growing mass of spectators huddled around my little brother.

The bag was now in my right hand, which hung limply at my side, and a large hand pushed me forward by the center of my back, urging me, encouraging me.

'_Oh, Ed, what are you doing to yourself?'_

"Step back, please," I said to the wall of hot, wet bodies and raised voices. The words "sue" and "stretcher" both winged their way into my mind, but they did little to aid me, and the people did little to listen to me.

…_Surrounded, crushed, pierced, poisoned, and even killed…_

I stepped forward a tad, craning my neck to see over the spare ref's shoulder, while he bawled at the crowd to return to their seats, to give Edmund some air, for someone to call an ambulance.

"Let me see him," I said, my voice coming out with more strength, but still sounding far away to my ears, "I can help."

A hand on my chest pushed me back, "Go back and sit down, boy. Don't get in the way."

I stepped against it, causing the person to have to bend their elbow or snap their wrist in the effort of driving me away from my goal, "Let me see him," I repeated.

The hand disappeared and I pushed ahead again, where more sets latched onto me, hundreds of voices- it felt- telling me to go back on my word, on my promise to my king, and a tiny whisper in my mind reared up at their faulty logic, consuming my thoughts with a single purpose.

"Don't get any closer-"

'_I need to be closer-'_

"-Please sit down, young man. We're trying to-"

'_-Stop me? Try.'_

"-help me if we can. If you get in our way-"

'_Who's in whose way?'_

"-Just let the professionals take care of this-"

'_-This is in my care. My charge.'_

"-None of your business-"

'_All of it is my business.'_

"-Sit down and-"

'-_Stand up-'_

"-Just calm down-"

'_Fight back_-'

"Go-"

'…_Edmund, we must beg our eldest to watch over you…'_

My vision swam back into focus, and my eyes narrowed by the influence of some unnamed power that was currently boiling up the frozen blood in my veins, my pupils zeroing in on the suddenly apprehensive-looking, dowdy man who happened to be standing directly in front of me when I came out of my stupor.

Swallowing visibly, he mustered up a scrap of courage from _deep_ inside his ironed raincoat, "Go on, then. Nothing to see here," he shooed me nervously, doing nothing to mitigate my ill-contained rage.

Getting as close to his face as I could, while leaning against the many hands pushing me away, the emotions that had been building up deep inside of me, ever since Ed's tryouts, ever since Susan's letter, ever since I was told that I was helpless to aid him, bubbled up and lowered my voice to a soft, threatening hush.

"_What I see here_," I said, until we were almost nose-to-nose, "_is __**everything**__**to me**_."

He blinked rapidly, mouth opening and closing, but no sound escaping, eyes blinking rapidly, but no comprehension or intelligent glint dawning within them.

"_Let me pass_," my lips snarled, the caged feel of reining in a temper you want so badly to let loose was gripping me tightly, my muscles and tendons straining against the unforgiveable impulse to remove this man from my way. Memories of past wars, long-forgotten skirmishes, distant battles were clouding my sight with a veil of red. The ghostly presence of my lost sword tingled in my right fist, "_Let me help my brother._"

"Blond! What are you doing? Hey, you, we're med-staff, so shove off. Come on Pevensie, got your bag?"

Thank Aslan; Hamilton was at least one person in the immediate vicinity who hadn't utterly lost his mind in the tumult. His large, conciliatory palm rested- only briefly- on my shoulder, and I felt my temper instantly diminish. I straightened away from the bumbling man ahead of me and, instead, turned my head to face my teacher.

"Yes, sir. Right here," I hefted it higher so that he could see.

"Good. Now budge, you," he aimed at the frowsy man, who was still frozen, petrified as he kept his eyes trained on me. Hamilton frowned expressively, gliding the pair of us neatly around his bulk, "Come on, we have work to do."

More work than he ever knew.

**OoOoOoOoO**

As it turned out, Edmund hadn't needed the ambulance, or, even, the aid of professional doctors and nurses. Once Peter had been allowed access to his unconscious sibling, he had deemed that the fall had not broken his neck, merely banged him up a bit, and they had paused the game for as long as it took for the older Pevensie to get his brother off of the pitch, only then going about the task of completing the last few minutes without their star player.

A short few minutes that had brought about Hartbee's loss.

Now, wet, tired, sore, and feeling less and less esteemed as each moment went by, the Hartbee Hawks trudged heavily to the showers, ready to bathe and then flop right down to sleep in their soft, downy beds. Or at least to lay awake in misery of their recent and brutal defeat.

'_And why_,' pondered Cain, '_had they lost this ridiculously easy game?'_

"I hope Pevensie's all right," Jay said aloud after fifteen minutes of pending silence, toweling his hair dry as he spoke.

"Yeah, me too," Jefferey Garrison was slowly buttoning his uniform shirt, looking lost in thought. A few others nodded sadly.

It was because he was incidentally, through no means of nefarious plotting that Collins could have possibly planned, teamed up with the softest and sickly sentimental chuckle-heads that Hartbee's could offer.

"I really thought he'd gotten hurt," Jay went on, now leaning against his locker with the fluffy, white towel draped around his neck, "He's such a small chap, you know? I'll never know how he keeps up with us all."

It was turning into an increasingly emotional conversation topic, and Cain furiously struggled with tying his school tie, eager to escape as he felt a few thoughtful eyes begin to settle on him. Blast it all! Why couldn't they have issued clip-on ties instead?

"Hey, Cain."

Blast!

"You were closest to him when he went down- what did he trip up on?"

"How should I know?" Cain bit, ready to rip his tie down the middle and be done with it, "I was doing what I was supposed to be doing: _watching the ball_. Not gazing longingly after that teacher's pet."

"Hey now," Jay frowned disapprovingly at him, "There's no need for that kind of talk."

"You mean there _wouldn't_ have been a need for it, if _you'd_ been doing the same thing. If _you'd_ been paying attention, we wouldn't have lost the match."

Jay stood up, forcing Cain to crane his neck to meet his angry gaze.

"_Now listen, you_," the larger boy thundered down at him, causing much of the team to look curiously in their direction, "You've done _nothing but grouse_ ever since you've got on the team. I love this game more than anything. And I'm sure many here could back me up on that. But I'd risk _any_ game for one of my mates- that's how teams work. So if you hate losing so much, I suggest you get yourself together and learn how to operate with people, even if you _don't _like them."

"Fine," he managed, jerking his limp tie off of his neck and stuffing it into his bag, "Whatever. Have it your way. I'll get him roses or something."

"Jacobs," Jay warned, narrowed eyes tracking the touchy boy on his way out of the locker room.

"I said all right!"

Before the satisfying sound of the heavy door slamming shut, though, Cain could hear the last bits of the conversation;

"Think he's mad enough to quit?"

"Nah, probably just sore we lost to the _Beavers_, of all schools."

"Speaking of mad, though, did'ja see Pevensie? The older one? Crikes, I thought he was going to lam someone…"

_Then _the door slammed shut, and Cain was left in the haunting silence of the school halls, with only the angry step of his uniform shoes and the unsettled pounding of his guilty heart to lead him deeper into the unlit, unpopulated, inundating gloom of the corridor.

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**A/N:**

**So, we're beginning to get a glimpse of Collin's true motives behind the Deal with Ed, Peter's just about hit his boiling point on being left in the dark, Ed is out cold, Cain is hiding something, and everything is starting to drive this story towards its completion! **

**Yes, the main conflict is approaching. I know it's been long in coming, but it's just about knocking on our door. When it comes, be ready- because everything will start going very quickly when it does!**

**I thank all of you for keeping up with P.E thus far- it's been a real rollercoaster on this end (trying to get the updates up and striving to make everything as prime as I possibly can for you all to read), but I wouldn't trade the experience for anything else in the world, and there's still more chapters and stories ("Monochrome") of Narnia yet to come! **

**To those of you who were craving some Ed/Peter brother moments, never fear! The next chapter, as you can garner from this one, is set up for just that, trust me. Also coming up: A face-off between Cain and someone unexpected and the making of an important decision by everyone's favorite Just King.**

**You're the best!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

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**New Vocabulary:**

**Paragon- an apparently perfect person or thing**

**Inundating- overwhelming, flooding**

**Conciliatory- soothing**

**Mitigate- appease or moderate**

**Lam- to hit very hard**


	16. Sixteen: Promises Exchanged

**P.E**

**Chapter Sixteen: Promises Exchanged**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: Believe me when I say that I will be the _first_ to jump on the chance when Narnia appears on the market. **

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"_Better is an open rebuke than hidden love," Proverbs 27:8_

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I felt like a trapped animal.

As soon as Hamilton and the rest of the obliging men, who had assisted in carrying my brother down to a small room in the medical ward to rest, departed with many wishes to "Get well in time for the next match" and a considerate "Don't hesitate to yell for me if you need help" from the robust coach, Edmund and I were left totally and frighteningly alone in the white, crisp, and thoroughly sterilized wing.

Or, rather, _I_ was left totally and frighteningly alone, because my bashed-silly brother had yet to regain his inhumanly attuned senses.

What was worse, I found myself hyper-aware, still coming off of my adrenaline high, and kept twitching at every slight creak of the metal furniture or the obnoxious screeching of tree branches against the high, bay windows, from where I could watch the storm be blown over the school.

Pacing, I rubbed my thumbs to my forefingers, putting to practice the use of a useful pressure point, which was supposed to help lower the heartbeat (something I desperately needed) and calm the mind, but whether I was missing the actual point, or if because the trick was only supposed to work on a _mildly _agitated public speaker, I couldn't decide. It did nothing to calm me.

My brother had just gotten himself hurt. Not seriously, only a knock hard enough to render him out for a few more hours tops, and with (luckily) no concussion either. But he had gotten hurt all the same, and I hadn't been watching- _hadn't moved_- when he was…

…Could it have been the first part of the prophecy?

Behind me, the bed creaked, and I whirled to find my little brother shifting under his coverings, eyebrows drawing together for a moment before relaxing again, his entire body going slack with them, dropping lazily back onto the mattress.

"Ed?" I pondered quietly, stepping over to stand next to the bed, "Are you awake?"

"You'll need biscuits," he responded evenly, face completely void of expression, and I blinked in surprise.

"What?"

But he did not respond again, except to shift onto his side, so that he was facing me, and emitted a faint, rasping snore from the back of his muddy throat. Sleep talking. He _had _been known to do it, from time to time…

"Most of the time, actually," I admitted aloud, voice echoing loudly around the hollowed-out room, and I dropped to a whisper, "Since you were about four, you'd wake me up with one-sided conversations about the oddest things." I smiled reminiscently, "In Narnia, you typically talked about court proceedings and debates. Once or twice I'd wake up and you'd be arguing with Lucy about agricultural plotting, or Susan about her fashion advise, or…" a dimming sensation filled me, the memories rebounding within my head- just as awkward and lonesome as my words still reverberating around the cold, supposedly hospitable room, "…or with me. About going to war by myself..."

I paused, allowing this voicing of memories to relay a few moments, giving it a chance to truly soak into my consciousness as I visualized that large, dark bedchamber, where my brother slept restlessly, only feet away while he begged me to take him with me, to promise him that he could stand at my side, sometimes crying long into the night while I pleaded with him to wake up. Sickened slightly, I took a seat on the ground next to my brother's temporary bed, one hand sinking fast into the cloth to anchor me as I drifted in a maelstrom of thoughts.

"I can't even imagine-" I swallowed vehemently, fisting my left hand deeper into the thin, white sheet that lay draped over my brother's prone form, "I can't even think of a life- of an _existence_- that doesn't have you to follow me everywhere I go…"

Edmund, predictably, said nothing, his chest, coated with dried mud, doing nothing more than rising a bit beneath the covering.

"Even thinking about it-" I continued, staring dumbly at the wall, "I feel like I want to scream, but can't find the will to even open my mouth. Like I want to die, but my heart keeps beating anyway. Like it's telling me that it doesn't _belong _to you…And I hate it because of that, because I said that it did…"

A queasy, nauseated feeling began spinning upwards from my gut, forcing my throat to tighten impossibly, yet, by some miracle, my voice did not shake.

"Do you remember, in our first year, when we were locked in that dank old wagon, hurtling to Aslan-knows-where in the pitch blackness of the woods, and I was only half awake because of that stupid drug someone slipped in our saddle drinks? You hadn't tried yours, remember, because you were fasting for Lu's health at the time?"

I actually managed a weak snort at that point, "Which I thought was brilliantly timed, seeing as it saved both our lives," my smile faded, "But all I remember of that terrible, frightening ride is that you were holding onto me for all you were worth. And not just that…you were _shielding_ me. Blocking the brunt of all the loose bric-a-brac flying around in that muggy, suffocating, old box. And all I could think of, at the time, was that, at that moment, we were _physically _closer than we'd _ever_ been. You were never one for touch, hated it, as a matter of fact. Couldn't get you to hug me if I bribed you, and yet I could scarcely feel my shoulders by the time you let go."

I blinked, suddenly realizing that a similar feeling had erupted in my hand, and I dazedly loosed it from the bed sheets, flexing the long digits out to their full extent, before slowly retracting them, and then gently moved them to cover the warm forearm of my sleeping brother, the heat from his sedate heartbeat seeping quickly into my numbed hand.

"But, you know," I murmured, lightly scratching a layer of caked dirt from his pale flesh, "I realized, a while after, that whenever we get into a tight fix, you and I typically get closer," my eyes glanced up from his limb to his still face, quirking a wry twitch of my lips, "'A brother is born for adversity,' after all…" Some of the dirt was stubbornly refusing to be unearthed from the lines in his forearm, but I continued to rub a thumb over them. "Maybe that's why I'm so upset with myself. We're supposed to _be_ there for one another, Edmund. And I _haven't _been there, have I? I've been letting you slink away to lick your own wounds, thinking you'd come to me when you were ready, thinking you just needed some time to yourself..."

Self loathing had never tasted quite so bitter.

"And I was a right git to think like that- you _always_ try to bow out when you need attention the most. _You're scared_, Edmund. Just like that wagon ride, you're scared- too scared to move, even- but you'll willingly take the blow as long as you think you're doing your duty to keep _me_ protected. Just like always," a ragged breath blew powerfully through my nostrils, flaring them against the petrifying sting of churning waters, "_Just like Lucy's vision_."

Weary and now trembling with helplessness, my head dropped onto the bed next to his side, the faint scent of starch tickling my olfactory nerves, "I'm your _brother _before I'm your King, Edmund! If you need me, wake me up! Don't think you're duty-bound to guard me. Please. I know Aslan named you Protector. You keep us safe. But please, this once, let us at least try to keep _you_. Please, Edmund. _Please._"

For once, I wished he would forget to do as he was told.

"I'm trying to have faith that Aslan knows best. He's saved you before when times were bleak, and if-" a sob tore at my vocal chords, ripping at a tear until it slipped traitorously down my cheek, "-If He wants to claim you now, I can't see how it would be my place to question Him."

Oh, but how the questions clogged my throat with their desperate, clingy nature. Would he be in pain? Would I have the chance to do anything? Would I be able to comfort the girls? Would I ever find any consolation, myself?

I looked up again, my face now flushed with tears and lips trembling with an effort to speak my part, so much so that I was forced to steady them against the cool surface of his palm, which I turned over in my hold. The muscles and tendons within his hand twitched and worked under my thumb, much akin in their fluid movements as the rest of him was capable of acting, and the terrible thought that they might be frozen by rigor mortis, turning cold and hard and mechanical chilled my heart through. I pressed a kiss to them, but made no effort to pull away, and soon the dirt from the pitch and the blood from his slight scrapes were mixed with my tears.

"Promise me…"

'_Jeistha, mo provis. _[Breathe, my brother.]'

'_Ne de pranae nade traej ble en. _[Do not give up while you still can (draw life).]'

'_Disde ne de lan Cornar nade traej lo ble jeislo. _[Please do not leave me while you are still alive.]'

'_Drae corna. _[Have faith.]'

"…Just promise me…" I breathed into his palm, letting his flesh and warm blood block the cheery sun that was, suddenly and completely out of countenance, attempting to burst through the room's bay windows, "Promise that, this time, you'll take what I can offer_,_" I sniffed loudly, exhaling a gust of nerves, and nuzzling my head deeper into his blanketed side, "Even if I can only offer myself: promise me."

**OoOoOoOoO**

Cain Jacobs had found himself standing, quite suddenly, far too close to death for his own liking.

Having just escaped the locker room and let his feet take him where they would, while his head was pounding with probable lies and false tales that would help save his skin from accusation, the strangest notion that he was going to get caught flailed his usual flippant demeanor against every wall his twisted mind could offer, leaving him with naked and irritating _guilt_.

The worst thing about it, Cain finally decided, was that he couldn't find himself capable of brushing it off.

But while his agitated mind was desperately searching for escape routes, his wandering feet managed to lead him straight into the worst sort of situation: Standing directly outside of Edmund Pevensie's med room. And what was worse-

-Peter Pevensie was in there too.

Cain's heart sputtered angrily at him, and he tried to backtrack, panicking when he noticed that his feet wouldn't give way to his demands.

"_Come on!"_ he hissed, looking at them, and then through the door's slim window, which was criss-crossed with thin metal hatching across the glass, making it possible for parents or nurses to check in on school patients without having to open the door and possibly disturb their sleep. Now it was baring him to the potential, freezing, murderous gaze of the older boy, whose face was, mercifully, buried in the blankets next to the unconscious form of his little brother.

And still his feet remained rooted in- fear? His new guilt? Some obscure force of justice? Cain cursed under his breath, but his legs seemed to grow even more stationary as he did so. Something was holding him there, incidentally the _same _something that had led his feet to that very spot to begin with.

"Kids did say this hall was haunted," Cain muttered to himself, glaring at his traitorous legs in disgust, "I suppose I'll be seeing things crawl up the walls now? Come on!" he called quietly, ignoring the uneasy fear rising in his chest, and speaking tauntingly at the shadowed hallway, "Just try, spooks! You don't scare me!"

"You _should_ be scared."

Cain would have fallen over if the strange force weren't holding him up.

"Who are you? What do you want from me?!" he found himself squeaking to the ceiling, fists clenched in front of his collarbone.

"Cain, it's me," said the voice again, and, this time, Cain could see Thomas Macintosh walk into his field of vision, at once causing him to drop his hands to his side.

"Don't _do _that," Cain seethed around his chatter teeth, and Thomas quirked a smile.

"What are you doing here, anyway? Get glued to the floor?"

"I can stand here if I like," the other boy retorted viciously, too proud to cadge for assistance, and crossing his arms over his chest, "What is it to you?"

If it was intended to prompt any sort of information from the sandy-haired Scot, it failed miserably, for Thomas did nothing more than turn his body so that they were both looking directly through the thin window, a look of awe and sadness sweeping over his grin.

"You know, I'd give anything to have a brother like that," Thomas confessed breathlessly, so serious in his tone that Cain turned a bit to get a good look at his face. The expression was one of deep longing.

"A crybaby?"

"A friend," responded instantly, without missing a single heartbeat, "Someone to look up to."

Cain scowled.

"They're a little too close to just be friends," he commented nastily.

"You're right," Thomas conceded, mimicking his own friend so that his arms draped across one another in an almost self-serving hug, "They're brothers- _real_ brothers." He watched Peter's hand tighten over Edmund's in his sleep and his face lit with strangely familiar understanding, "My brother never cared that much, you know. I think I annoyed him."

"Imagine," Cain said dryly, cursing his ill luck anew that he was stuck listening to something so emotional.

"Yeah. He was always working on something or other for school. It was a scheduled thing," Thomas shrugged a bit, "And I wasn't something he decided to make time for. Now he's somewhere in the Netherlands, teaching a small Catholic school."

Cain snorted and instantly found his mouth moving of its own accord, "Your brother always _was_ the type to do something so boring."

Thomas laughed a bit, "He didn't like you, either."

"_No one_ in your family liked me. It was a wonder I came over at all." Where were these words coming from? He was sure he was upset with Thomas for being such a girlish sap- what was prodding him to look past that?

"My father liked you, all right," Thomas argued.

"Okay, your dad."

"_I_ liked you."

"Aren't you glad we're alone right now?"

"Yeah, actually," Thomas' tone had turned again, and Cain's heart paused, as if holding its breath, "I wanted to talk to you about something."

"Well?"

"I saw what happened on the pitch today, Cain."

Cain's mouth ran dry. His heart skipped a beat and his lungs froze up in his chest. After a brief pause, he caught enough air in his gaping mouth to wheeze out, "_What?_"

"You know, I wish you'd give me a little credit sometimes, Cain. Really." Was it possible to say that his friend actually sounded _angry_ at him? Cain had never known his friend to be capable of becoming incensed. _Ever._

"Cain Marshall Jacobs, I've known you since we were kids. And I know you've had it hard these past few years. Honest to God, I do. But I don't think I've _ever _been so disappointed in you."

"Well go on then, yell," his throat was tight with an eagerness to argue, even if it was with his only friend, "Go on."

"I'm not going to yell at you, Cain, because I don't know what good that would do you. It'd be like adding fire on fire. I always thought you were this tough chap who was, maybe, a little gruff and a little angry for the things that happened to you, but remained a fellow who could overcome that. For a while, you were like an older brother- you were that person I looked up to. But now-"

"Thomas…" Cain said, the fight leaked out of him, and instantly found himself floundering for something to say. Thomas, however, was not.

"-I'm sick of standing up for you to people, Cain," the Scot cut in tiredly, taking a weak step backwards from where Cain was rooted, "I'm sick of telling people that you're really a nice person when you go around beating up on kids three years your junior, because, in the end, all you do is make us both liars."

"How does- 'both'?"

"Didn't you swear to me," Thomas asked softly, his voice filling the large hall with its ringing truth, "a long time ago, that you would never become like that chip sitting on your shoulder? Isn't that chip the reason you tripped Edmund?"

Cain's posture slumped noticeably, "Thomas- I didn't mean- I didn't _know _that he would-"

"-You didn't think. About anyone or anything but yourself, and proving to everyone that you could be a _winner_. And now we're done, Cain," he said, back farther away, "And when you think you've gotten a hold on yourself, _I'll_ be where _I think I need_ to be."

"And where's that?"

In the scant light, where the only visibility could be drawn from the lamp resting beyond a slim, glass window, Thomas' gaze could be seen swinging towards the closed door, the look of longing, though fainter, was completely apparent.

"Where I can learn to be the best friend that I can be."

It was not for around an hour after Thomas' footsteps ceased to echo about in the wing, that Cain took notice of the fact that his feet were no longer being held to the floor by the mysterious force.

Now, they were held by shame.

OoOoOoOoO

I have always been told that I am an excellent actor.

Peter, especially, made my talent at it a trait to be praised amongst our tightest circles, but amongst our tightest circles alone, for when I went out on missions to foreign lands and our situation became disastrous- as it often times did- it was up to me to feign illness or madness or down-right ignorance to warrant our safe departure. Once, Peter even convinced me to venture out to settle an important arrangement in Lucy's stead- disguised _as Lucy_.

And to be known for a trait such as trickery and concealing would not have aided us.

But even so, to say that I can pretend to do something as simple as sleeping, is, in and of itself, a rather obvious conclusion to make. Even if Peter _was_ too dense to notice some unnatural watering around the corners of my eyes.

What he said was right, of course, abstemious fool that he is. My king and brother had possessed many burdens in our years as rulers of Narnia, but the one burden that he had never quite learned to lift, without breaking his back, that is, was the burden of _mortality._ Because my brother is who he is, death is the one enemy he fears above all else- not for himself, but for the ones he loves.

Life is the least he can give, but far more than he can accept, and some super-sense of his must have picked up, at some point or another, that a life was about to be given for his sake.

And it almost was, until Aslan intervened.

Now, laying back on the pillows of my bed, with Peter's latest declaration of love and loyalty ringing in my ears, I realized exactly what I had done-

-To Peter-

-To My family-

-To Aslan-

-And what I had done to my _faith_.

Everything that had happened- everything that was _going _to happen- was my fault. Completely and utterly.

'_Oh, Aslan, I've really messed up this time, haven't I?_'

All because I, though biddable, had forgotten to _listen_. Hadn't He told me?

"_I will tell you…"_

And He had- I had even heard Him when He did. I vividly remembered the exact moment that the dull worry in my chest had exploded into something far more terrifying- something far more real than blind panic. _I had known that Peter's life was in danger__._

But now I knew where I had went wrong, where I started to believe the inane idea that I could outsmart fate, that it was up to me to save my brother's life, that just believing Aslan would protect him wasn't enough. _It was up to me_.

Me, the foolish child who had forgotten who had given me my power in the first place in the very _midst _of my vagary.

Yet, I then knew where I had gone wrong, and so, when the door to my room opened wide and Headmaster Collins stepped through, his face as jovial as ever and the latest paper clutched in his hand with a possession that clearly spelled pride, I knew what I had to tell him.

'_How am I to tell when someone with far more guile wants to harm my family?'_

"I want to end our Deal."

Collins froze in his tracks at my words, quiet and steady though they may have been, a large smile still covering his face, just as Calormene slave traders were known to cover theirs with scarves.

'_I will tell you.'_

'_Please just tell me that you'll protect them when I'm gone.'_

**

* * *

**

**A/N:**

**So! Peter finally got what he was feeling off of his chest, Thomas went and told off his BFF, and Edmund is suddenly backing out of the ever-mysterious "Deal"- what does this spell for our favorite Pevensie brothers? How will Collins react? Where are Lucy and Susan in all of this? Will Thomas' lecturing at Cain yield any fruit? Will Peter ever be able to have an emotional conversation with Edmund when he **_**isn't **_**sleeping? All will be revealed in chapters yet to come! ;D**

**Thank you, to all who read the last chapter and felt compelled to read this one as well! I LOVE writing for Narnia- it's absolutely addicting. As well, thanks to the many who took the time to review- each one is appreciated more than you can possibly know.**

**Hope your summers are going well! And keep writing!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

**New Vocabulary****:**

**Abstemious- not self-indulgent**

**Biddable- willing to obey**

**Cadge- beg **

**Vagary- capricious act**


	17. Seventeen: Partnership Exterminated

**P.E**

**Chapter Seventeen: Partnership Exterminated**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: Narnia? Of course I own it! And I was born with the power of flight, too!**

* * *

"_But as for me, my feet had almost slipped; I had nearly lost my foothold," Proverbs 73: 2_

* * *

Cold sunlight lit the room in a dusty red, throwing the shadows that had draped over my legs and the white linen sheets into a sharp relief, spilling eagerly over them both to wash the exposed flesh of my upper limbs in deep golds and crimsons as my fingers anxiously twisted each amongst his brethren, grasping and slipping over one another in a desperate example of self-restraint.

Mr. Collins still resided in the doorway, white teeth gleaming, gut frozen in a motion of great swelling, like a whale about to spew forth the sea from atop its massive head, and the daily news hoisted above that very same, thinning dome with banner-like representation, its pages ruffling slightly in some mysterious breeze. With shrewd eyes he stared at me, and I can honestly confess to feeling exactly what my brother swore he went through each time I looked at him in that way- Very small, very stupid, and very, _very _see-through.

I made a mental note to apologize to Peter as soon as chance permitted it.

"I'm, sorry, Mr. Pevensie," Collins said at long last, withdrawing his arm from the air and expelling a gust of wind through his nostrils, flaring them ominously alongside the odd glint that now lit up his black eyes, "But I'm afraid that it is impossible for you to leave this Deal so soon. Now this," he went on, looking for all the world like a man who had been named heir to an immense fortune and dismissing my expression of feelings instantaneously, "_this_ is something. Based on this article here," he pointed excitedly to the middle of the page, "parents and businesses across the nation are eager to aid our school in our current economic crisis. It says that many, 'seeing the determined and full-hearted effort of the students,' are willing to donate a biannual sum to keep us running!" Collins laughed, folding the paper under his arm, "They don't even seem to mind that we _lost_ the match. Keep this up, Edmund, and we'll _both_ have what we wanted..."

And, really, that nearly quelled whatever bravery I had garnered. The memory of my eldest sibling's blessing, that had resided so warmly and enthralling in my palm, now grew faint at his fatherly demeanor and sweet promises of safety, of keeping what I loved the most. Why turn back now, when my goal was finally in sight?

_'Promise me...'_

But in closing my fingers over the phantom tingling that fluttered in the midst of the dark stain marring my palm, blood and mud and blessed tears, I trapped my resolve securely and sternly retrieved my words from where they had stolen.

"I _was _the one who started up this agreement, Mr. Collins, but now...I'm afraid I have to break from it."

The sunny evening that cheerily cast its light into the bay windows behind my bed felt decidedly out of place in the heavy atmosphere that quickly and silently fell atop the both of us, Mr. Collins refreshing his scrutinizing glare.

"...The agreement was that you would stay until your brother was accepted into a university, not when you felt like it, _Edmund_." Since when had my own name sounded so ignorant and debased?

"The agreement, sir," I countered, feeling the ice cracking and groaning beneath my feet but deciding to stomp impetuously upon it anyway, "was that I would be your media monkey as long as Peter could join this school with me."

"_And didn't you have what you wanted?_" Collins snapped, actually causing my heart to stutter in my chest as pure, undefiled rage lashed out at me, only to be covered in a sickly sweet smile in the next nanosecond. I felt a freezing thrill curl my spine at the gentle voice that quickly succeeded his previous spite, "My dear Edmund…" Slowly, he stepped closer to where I was propped up and meticulously sat at my side, his large posterior completely covering the darling creases that had marked where my own brother had rested his head not but a few hours beforehand. Goosebumps violently erupted across my arms.

"Edmund," he began again, voice soothing, "Look now. I know you've had a rough day, but that's no reason to get into such a huff. You're tired. Let's wait until tomorrow, when you've rested enough to make such a big decision, eh?" His large hand came up to pat me companionably on my forearm.

"It's odd…Mr. Collins. That you didn't offer time or rest the last time I made a 'big decision' on your behalf," I looked up at him, feeling a warm sort of sense of right and obvious wrong balancing heavily in my gut , "My mind is made up, sir. I'm finished."

"You'd leave your sibling to the wolves, then?" Collins pressed, my arm becoming cautiously enshrouded in his bulky fingers, "Just like that, you drop him to the side of the street because you were a little banged-up today? You'd abandon him to the supposed 'greater good'? What about the positive publicity you've made for Hartbee's-? _Think_ of how that could help your brother_ escape _this war. Is it really so easy for you to _abandon_ your cause-?"

"-I'm not abandoning my brother!" I said sharply, starting beneath his hold just enough so that he, in turn, was slightly jostled by my heat_-__'I can't even think of a life- of an existence- that doesn't have you to follow me everywhere I go'…_"I'd _never_ abandon him. Not then, and _certainly not now_. Which is why I'm backing out from this Deal before-" I broke off, catching myself just before I revealed the fact that I was awaiting the fulfillment of my death sentence. A fact Collins would only be too keen in using against me, or my brother, to win his campaign, "-Because he needs me to support him in whatever happens, and I'm going to be there for him."

Mercifully- or was it with coniving calmness?- Collins ignored my tripping tongue.

"When they come calling for him, you mean?" the man hinted instead, a "cat-playing-with-a-mouse" look riling my already frayed nerves, "What kind of weight do you intend to pull?"

"I don't 'pull weight', sir," though Peter always _had_ said I needed to put on more of it, "When they," I tried to make my swallow as minimal is possible, "_come_, to sign Peter up for the war, I will simply have to have faith that he will be kept safe." _Aslan, please keep him safe..._

"Oh, _Edmund_, my poor boy, we both know just how _strong_ your faith is," Collins drawled sarcastically, looking far too gleeful at my past blunder, "It's what started this whole fiasco, isn't it?"

"Yes," a scraping wave of ballooning guilt pushed against my ribs, and I took a deep breath to free-up my abruptly breathless lungs, "Yes, the idea was silly. That I could pull out an ace and save the day. That I could trick and foil and lie to save my brother from harm. And _that_," I continued, steel lining my tongue, "is the same reason I won't keep with this Deal."

"Oh, is it now?"

Something was beginning to click behind his eyes. The flashing emotion of sudden understanding. Of what, I could not say, except perhaps that dear, noble Headmaster Collins had just realized that I would not be swayed with his needling persuasion. Not this time. Not ever. My suddenly assured speech was leaving him grasping at straws, for he had never really dealt with me when I was confident in my actions.

"I'm going to write my parents in the morning, sorting the entire thing out. As soon as they've found another school who will accept me so late in the semester, I will leave..."

Free- I was going to be _free_. Not even the continuous throb of woe and worry from my Sense- which peppered my thoughts in furious, precise pecks of its unnatural beak- could detain the glorious pumping of relief that threatened (promised) to drown me in its refreshing and utterly welcome tide. Freedom- for the both of us.

"...Along with my brother. We'll be out of your hair in no time at all." I attempted a polite smile for good measure, but fear that it may have turned out to be more of a smug smirk, the phantom breath of Spring puffing warmly in my quickly thawing core, the suspicious sound of rumbling purrs ringing fire into my veins, ridiculously emboldened where I once would have stood petrified.

But such is _my_ King's power. And surely such power could strive to embolden my king as well?

There was very pregnant interlude, between my shortly explained plan and what happened next, in which the realization lighting his dark pupils seemed to spark off another thought. Then another. And another. On and on until _I_ came to the uncomfortable realization that this man, this twisted and manipulative deal-striker, was also composing something beneath his thick brow. Something to hinder my progress at escape.

"There's nothing you can do," I said to him, and my voice seemed to drive him out of his plunging thoughts at a wicked speed, one moment seeing him as a frozen statue, the picture of pondering, and the next recharging him to full animation, his grip on my forearm becoming all at once incredibly painful in its zeal.

Jerking me brutally so that I was bent to meet him in the eye, my arm trapped within his vice-like hold, I found myself hampered by my recent injury and helplessly weak against his mountain of strength.

"You're making a _mistake_, Mr. Pevensie," he whispered softly, gaze never leaving mine and entirely too close for comfort, "I'll only ask you once more: _Do not break your oath to me_. I am not a man to be fooled by childish ideals like ill-founded faith in unseen forces. _Do as you promised me!_"

There were so many responses I could have given to that man. Replies that hinted at not being a child either, replies that hinted at me breaking my oath if he won out in breaking my arm- but they were only quirky witticisms that filtered through my throbbing mind at his newest development: his surprisingly _open_ threats. His skin had shed, and in seeing him come clean of his jovial persona, for some reason or another, by his dangerous anger, or by Aslan's persistent prodding, I, too, was provoked to become completely clean of my disguise.

I knew that my bearing had changed the instant his eyes flickered in wondering question, that my presence had expanded the moment his fingers unraveled from my arm, and when I opened my mouth to speak, I knew that he did not hear Edmund Pevensie, his golden scholarship student, but the full blue-fire of King Edmund the Just's indignation.

'_Don't think you're duty-bound to guard me. Please. I know Aslan named you Protector. You keep us safe. But please, this once, let us at least try to keep __**you**__.'_

"I made an oath," I acquiesced frostily, the cold sting of anger nipping at my eyes, "_But not to you_."

'_Promise that, this time, you'll take what I can offer. Even if I can only offer myself.'_

"The one thing my brother needs right now, more than someone sticking his neck out to prevent something _that might not even __**happen**_, more than a martyr in his name, is _me_. And I'm going to give that to him…"

Using my opposite hand, I reached around my torso and grabbed his meaty fingers, prying them, one-by-one, from my person, keeping his eyes captive all the while with a measuring stare, letting the not-so-veiled threat of what would happen, should he deny _my_ brother what he wanted, rise into my countenance where he could fully weigh his chances.

"…_**completely**_**.**"

**OoOoOoOoO**

Somehow, and Peter was not exactly sure how, nor even when, but _somehow_ he had gained a manservant.

Or, at least, that's what it felt like having. He didn't really think that having a boy follow him around and try to open doors for him and pick up things he dropped counted as having a friend. (He never saw _Edmund_ try to break his back by lifting all five of his textbooks at once just so that he "didn't have to spend that extra minute of stopping by his dorm to pick them up.")

But that was _exactly _the sort of game Thomas Macintosh was playing at since his side had been robbed of his snarky familiar. The boy had even gone so far as to offer to trim his bangs when Peter found his hand continually brushing them out of his face with agitated bats of his hands. He never seemed to have guessed that Peter's distressed movements were NOT caused by his "rather scruffy" fringe, but rather a subconscious idiosyncrasy stemming from the fact that Thomas had offered to clean his laundry for him.

Twice.

In front of his snickering room mates.

And now...Now Peter found himself wishing for his brother with such longing that he felt he might explode if Edmund didn't appear in the next few seconds and display that _beautiful_ gift of his to politely (and permanently) tell someone off. There was only so much kowtowing that he could _take_, High King or no High King.

"Macintosh-"

"-Call me Thomas, mate."

"All right-_ Thomas_." Since when had they been mates again? "What are you doing?"

"I'm checking your maths homework for you."

Peter barely restrained his hand from flying to his forehead.

"Thomas, you really don't need to- It's fine if I miss a few." '_It's good if I look like I miss a few anyways...'_

"I don't mind," the Scot said sanguinely, clearly oblivious to all the signs screaming 'Wit's End in 500 Meters!' and, instead, contentedly erasing Peter's waning patience as he blotted out one of his answers on the lined paper, "But you really should be more careful when you do multiplication."

The High King's fingers snapped the pencil they'd been tightly gripping.

"Why aren't you doing your own homework?" They had the same classes, after all, and the same cranky teacher for mathematics.

Thomas stuck out his tongue in concentration, distantly wondering how his idol could have thought that the name of the wider angle of a triangle could be _"Four."_

"Were you even trying, mate? Oh," the brain beneath the sandy hair finally registered the question, "Oh, well, I knew you'd want to check on your brother, yeah?"

Peter blinked.

That was actually..._helpful. _And, really, he'd been to distracted in his mangled thoughts about the rugby accident and whether he'd already failed his brother to concentrate on something as silly and useless as trigonometry. Maybe it didn't matter that Thomas could act like more of a mother than he could. Maybe he was a _bit_ like a friend...

"So, anyway, when I finish up here, do you think I could come with you to check up on him? You know, make sure he's comfortable?" At Thomas' hopeful and concerned look, Peter felt something like a laugh well up in his throat. The image of Thomas fussing over his little brother as much as the boy had been fawning over _him_ was too much to contain. As well as the conjured picture of said little brother's insulted expression.

He allowed a small smirk.

"Oh, yes," Peter agreed airily, his grin lighting the room, "I think Edmund would _love_ that."

**_OoOoOoOoO_**

_"BLAST HIM!"_

Several books stacked high atop a small coffee table found themselves cast viciously and without apology into the warm, crackling fire of the lavished office space, soon followed after by a stack of important-looking legal documents. These were fretfully retrieved in the next instant, the owner cursing loudly as his fingers were charred slightly in the blistering flames.

And, again, he condemned the boy in question to the deepest and hottest circle of Hell.

"Ruining my plan- ruining MY PLAN!" Collins threw himself into his armchair, tapped his fingers restlessly against the brass buttons of the arm rests, and then bounded to his feet again, pacing across the small space to the opposite wall and back, only to, once more, collapse edgily into the leather seat, "It was perfect- he was perfect! It was all ready and now he'll just flounce away again?" He picked up and hurled a gold-plated paper weight at the door, eyes tracking its progressive bounce-back off of the wooden frame.

But now things were coming together, at least. Jacobs' information had been extremely useful these past few months. The boy _was_ in his death throes- he could see it clearly in his eyes. What he'd said had been the wish of a dying man- a weak attempt at control. It didn't matter that his eyes had turned inhuman. Couldn't matter that he had felt the same connection to _that place_as he did when the lissome boy had spoken. Collins could find a way around it. He was still only a young one, after all. It only made sense that he'd want to spend it with his loved ones, instead of doing what he _**promised **__he'd do-! _

"I'll find a way," he swore angrily to the pens scattered hazardously across the polished top of his desk, "Whatever it takes, I'll find a way to complete it before then. He has NO RIGHT TO-"

An ill-timed knock disrupted his venting frustrations.

"Mr. Collins? You have a call waiting for you," Mrs. Dupree's voice was muffled through the wood, but nothing could muffle the sound of her persistent agitation. He _really_ wished he could make that woman mysteriously disappear sometimes...And it would be so simple to put his wish to action...

He shook his head, removing the bloody fantasies from his mind, "Tell them I'm in the middle of something."

"It's the Headmistress from Saint Finbar's," Dupree continued, not one to be deterred by his wrath, "She mentioned something about one of her students being related to the Pevensies and wanting to visit them?"

"Tell her I-" Collins paused, then stood from his desk and made his way through the remnants of his temper-tantrum to open the door. Mrs. Dupree looked up morosely from her desk, the phone leveled to her ear, one white finger irately tapping her desk.

"Related?" he asked carefully, "How so?"

"How is your student related to the Pevensies?" the ancient secretary relayed into the receiver, waiting a few moments while a response was given. She moved it so that her hand covered the mouthpiece and turned back to her employer, "She says that the girl is one of their sisters."

James Collins smiled charmingly, and the woman could easily see the cogs whirring rapidly about in his head. For what, she couldn't begin to guess.

"Tell her I'll speak with her, my dear lady," he said brightly, "We should, after all, make sure our dear scholarship students receive an appropriate treat for their efforts here..."

* * *

**A/N:**

**The "King" and "king" sentence Edmund used just after his spiel about freedom was referring to Aslan, and then to Peter. Just in case it was missed...**

**So, to those of you who have held on thus far, THAT is the revelation of Edmund's motives for striking the Deal in the first place- to keep Peter from being drafted into a bloody and suicidal war, which he realized his brother would soon be old enough to enter. (This takes place in the end of 1944, when Peter is seventeen and no one knows for sure when the war will end...) But what had been his original, desperate plan before Collins came along? Will he have to implement it now? What is Collins planning with Lucy? How will Edmund explain to Peter that they have to leave the school? When is someone FINALLY going to take Collins out? All will be revealed in chapters yet to come!**

**The scene with Thomas and Peter was a little awkward for me to write, as you can probably tell from the botched flow. Thomas really is a bit of a stalker...D: But one with good intentions. Poor Peter didn't know what to do with him except to foist him off on Ed. But basically, Thomas' reason for latching onto the Pevensies is explained in the previous chapter. He thinks he can be a better person if he tries to be as giving as possible. He tends to come off kinda creepy for it though...**

**Oh! And I forgot to mention this in the last chapter, but when Peter was talking to an "unconscious" Edmund? About the wagon ride? That's another brief peek into "Monochrome" for you to gnaw on. **

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

**New Vocabulary:**

sanguine- cheerful

lissome- lithe

kowtow- behave with exaggerated respect


	18. Eighteen: Pevensies Embroiled

**P.E**

**Chapter Eighteen: Pevensies Embroiled**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: If one were to say otherwise, I think the Pevensies wouldn't be quite as willing to cooperate in this story's progression… In fact, they may just wage an all-out war on me…**

* * *

"_A king's wrath is a messenger of death, but a wise man will appease it," Proverbs 16: 14_

* * *

**Warning: The following chapter is rated M for Mature because of violent thoughts/memories/dreams from the mind of Peter Pevensie. Please proceed with caution. **

* * *

**--Five months prior, July 21st, 1944. 3:13 P.M--**

_Tmp, tmp, tmp, tmp, tmp-_

Politely, briefcase in his opposing hand and hat carefully laid atop his head, the handsome, but somewhat large, man knocked on the blood red door to number 2435, Finch Street, and waited a moment on the step for someone to answer.

A sound of hastened footsteps faintly tickled his ears- the door opened to reveal a woman in about her mid-forties, black hair done up at the back of her head, a full-body apron currently being used to wipe a pair of floured-covered hands. Dark eyes, nearly as black as her hair, looked at him curiously, trying to place his face, or register what he might be trying to sell.

"May I help you?" her voice was anything but extraordinary, he realized instantly, slightly encouraged. In fact, it was absolutely _English_. There was nothing she could do for him, other than aid him in getting what he wanted.

"Hello, Mrs. Pevensie, I presume?" When she nodded, a frown working its way through her pale skin, he forged onward, "I'm the Headmaster of Hartbee's School for Young Men, James Collins. I'm here to discuss your son's grades in school, if I may...?"

Mrs. Pevensie's countenance shifted through several waxes and wanes of expressions, many of which were amazement, a couple of apprehension, and one, very fierce, explosion of pride. As dull as he knew her to be, he also recognized the need for complete caution around the matter of her child. No doubt she could pose as an immediate problem should he upset the parent's boundaries. This in mind, he smiled winningly, almost hopefully, like a lost child, to coax her into feeling she had the upper hand.

Like a charm, she smiled back and waved him inside.

"Yes, of course. Please excuse the mess. My daughter and I were just making some biscuits for tea. Would care to join us?"

Her alleged "mess" was nothing more than a small pile of thick, scientific books piled high on the floor next to a leather armchair in the parlor. His first clue.

"I would love to, ma'am, if I'm not intruding, that is. It would be perfect to discuss your son's academic achievements this past year."

'_I doubt he learned __**everything**__ from a pile of ratty books…'_

He followed her into a small, but rather noble-looking kitchen, his nose twitching delightedly at the scent of chocolate and vanilla swimming in the warm evening air.

"Not at all, not at all. It would be lovely to have you. Ah! Here, Mr. Collins. This is my youngest daughter, Lucy. Darling, say hello while I go get the boys." With a well-mannered dip of her chin to Collins, she exited the back door to the kitchen, allowing him a small glimpse of a wild-flower haven, arches and trellises supporting the weight of bursting rose buds, a grey-cobbled stone path, and the backs of two, sweaty young men bent over a bird bath, before she closed the door behind her.

Leaving him alone with the daughter.

The "Lucy" girl was little over five feet tall, long red hair braided flat down her back, a yellow flower he recognized from the front garden bed tied to the end with twine. She had turned as the adults entered with a small, pert sort of smile lighting up her small face. Her cheeks were flushed at their apple, a smear of flour dabbed at her chin. She wiped her hand on the flowered apron hanging from her waist when her mother left and extended one tiny hand for him to take.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Collins. What brings you here?"

They shook hands, and Collins was forced to retract his quickly, for fear of disgust showing on his face. Instead, he smiled largely back.

"Well, your brother has been doing such a fine job in his school, I thought I would see if he would like to join mine. I'm headmaster, you see, little Lucy," he added in a rather cooing manner, as though he spoke to a girl far younger than twelve, and he barely caught the hard glint that flashed momentarily behind her eye.

"Well, sir, I hope that you remember _which_ brother of mine you came for?"

Oh, she knew how to play, the little she-devil. Behind that childishly dimpled grin, he knew she was exacting a sort of retaliation to his treatment of her youth. Now, mocking his age, she was able to hide behind the same puerility he stepped on and fire at will. And you know what they say…"fire with fire"…

He took off his hat and bowed his head a little to her. A few fantasies of burning flour- like a firecracker, or small bomb- going off excitingly in his mind's eye. But he had no matches, as it was, and instead set his case on the dark wood table with a dignified _thud. _

"I certainly do, little Lucy. Your brother, Edmund, as a matter of fact. He's quite the scholar."

"Ed? He's intelligent, if that's what you mean," she turned back to her doughy biscuits, rolling another between the flat of her palms before setting it carefully on a metal sheet.

"Well, that is what 'scholar' means, you know, _dear_."

"Intelligence is not always measured by marks, _sir_."

He had a queer feeling that Lucy Pevensie knew just what _type_ of man he was, senescent or no, and an even queerer one that she wasn't frightened of his bitter anger or ill-restrained sadism in the least. As if to prove his point, she looked over her shoulder at him and brightened visibly, as though her face had been set to a far darker, far more mature level of understanding before she hid it in cherub dimples and sparkling sea green eyes.

"Would you like a biscuit, Mr. Collins?"

He held up a hand, silently chivvied the mother, and shook his head, like it pained him to admit the truth, "No, thank you. I'm afraid I dislike sweet things."

"Edmund loves them."

He looked sharply to her, noticing a sort of change wire throughout her thin limbs, making them seem longer, older. Her eyes, too, had somehow transformed into a sort of crystal, the same in hue but far different in texture, now hardened and impenetrable.

Oh, yes. She knew far more than she let on. The Devil take her.

"Mmmhmm."

The back door swung open again, bringing with it, the mother, and two sweaty, dirt-covered, sleeveless-shirt-wearing boys that reminded Collins of the strongest character foil he had ever witnessed.

The first, the larger one by far, was tan-skinned and golden-haired, bleached stranded glittered amongst a few of the more mellow, the last tendrils of straight-sunlight from the outdoors lovingly running its gleaming fingers from the front of his brow until they were scraped from his head by the shadow of the house that he obligingly stepped into, like a race of fire ringing around his skull before sputtering out. It was almost like a vision of a glorious crown resting there before it so violently vanished into thin air. Long, bronze limbs rippled with strength as he walked, a strong jaw was eased into an open-mouthed, deep baritone laugh as something the other had said upon their entrance, and when his eyes reopened from their crinkled smile, Collins looked upon the most amazingly blue eyes he had seen yet.

It _was_ power. But it was too good for his purpose. He needed-

The other boy moved into his sights.

-He needed _that_ sort of power.

As dark as night, his wild, uncombed tufts of hair flipping away from his scalp like crow feathers, his face pale as marble and eyes just as black and fathomless as she had. His steps were as quiet as snowfall, and just as entrancing. Thinner, more childlike arms extended from the deep blue shirt and should have made Collins feel as though the boy would be too weak for his plan. But it was there. The power he had searched for, for so long, for so far- that power was there. It bred there, it grew there and came off of him in whispering, jeering waves. Calling to him in familiarity.

_He was perfect_. He was exactly what Collins had expected him to be- if not more.

"Edmund," Collins said, and the boy's eyes snapped up to his. He found it hard to speak, for the tensely held, hysterical laugh that wanted so badly to claw out of his throat- the boy was answering…to _him!_

Edmund removed his gaze from Collins only for a second, to meet the dazzling blue of his brother's, who seemed to pass some sort of message to him without words, or even a twitch of his facial muscles. Then the Perfect Child came back to him.

"Yes?"

"My name is James Collins," the man said, squeezing his trembling hand into a tight fist, "I'm a headmaster, and I would like to offer you a chance to accept our new scholarship program."

**OoOoOoOoO**

**--November 12th, 1944, 7:42 P.M, Saint Finbar's Academy for Girls--**

In a flare of an old characteristic confidentiality that was purely Peter, the response letter (so dreadfully long in coming) was written in ancient Narnian script, hence rendering any chances of me reading said letter as void.

But of course Peter _would_ write something so urgent in a completely alien tongue. He and Edmund had never ceased to speak in that language once they managed to learn it. It was just another thing they shared. Just another thing that made them… Well, not quite aloof, but more_ reserved_, I should say, from the rest of us.

I mean, really- What _hadn't_ that pair seen together on their adventures? What hadn't they shared? Truthfully, I could not begin to guess, because they had never shared _any_ of it with _me_. Not their sidelong glances, not their almost telepathic ability to communicate, and _certainly not_ the Old language. Who was the first to know of Edmund's Gift? Peter. And who figured out Peter's? Edmund.

The only reason our Valiant sister had learned of Old Narnian in the first place was because she'd caught Peter attempting to outdo his little brother in some barmy competition with it that they had set up.

I'll never know how it was supposed to go, but Lucy come into my chambers one afternoon and told me they'd been sputtering some sort of gibberish at one another for well over an hour, with no signs of stopping, and that Peter had launched into a particularly interesting stream of nonsense and could I, please, come make sure they hadn't been poisoned, concussed, or simply addled from their day's work?

After that had all been sorted out, a rather sheepish explanation had emerged from the boys about Edmund finding ruins on the Stone Table and desperately wanting to know what they meant, should they aid him in growing closer to the very being that had placed His life down there. (And, consequently, so that Edmund might pick his new one up.) Possessed with this unnaturally fevered curiosity, Edmund's intensity managed to infect his sensitive older brother, the two setting about ransacking the library until they finally dug up old papers on the language. From there, they worked tirelessly over a year (in complete secret) on complex conjugations and confusing translations. Only _then_ had they attempted to speak in full sentences, often slipping over their own tongues to nail a tricky accent or a throaty fluttering.

Lucy, of course, had thought it brilliant, and even more so when she found that most of the old works Edmund and Peter were hard at work to memorize had turned out to be psalms and litanies written in honor of Aslan. With her exuberance, our brothers had found it difficult to deny her the chance to learn it.

But I hadn't even tried- Who else was to keep the castle running while those three scraped the last of their precious free time together to learn a dead language? Do not mistake what I say; it was very thoughtful of Peter and Edmund and Lucy to learn how to praise the Lion in His native tongue, but it had always seemed too sentimental to be useful to me. What was a secret code to a well-oiled system of workers and trade routes? I had always been the responsible one, and so, as my reward, I missed the lessons in Old Narnian.

And so, I was forced to track Lucy down to cipher out the scrawling, archaic shapes and figures that represented what I was sure were hard and chillingly truthful words, each bit of me hating myself for using my darling friend so roughly. As strong as my Queen is, she's still my _little_ sister, and I still see it as my role to preserve her from harm-

-Like the sort of harm derived from being forced to translate heart-wrenching letters to her language-inept sister. That should have been at least _one _service from her that I would never ask her to partake in.

But I often find myself just as cruel and callous as others call me gentle. My need to know could not be satiated by want of good alone, and I mercilessly hunted down my innocent baby sister to tell me just _what_ that mess of chicken scratch was supposed to mean in regards to Edmund's health.

Not death.

_Health._

Using classmates as markers, and teachers as witnesses, I followed a writhing trail of people who had claimed to have seen her, my steps clicking with a staccato precision (without softness and without warmth) on the smoothed flagstones until they finally rested on the outside of the Headmistress's heavy, cherry-wood door.

And there, resting on the other side, was my Treasured Seer.

She sat with her back to me, though from body language alone, I could tell she was completely ecstatic about something, and even then, the contagious euphoria that filled the air with giddy helium may have tipped me off. Her fairy feet danced beneath the too-large armchair. Her shoulders rose to greet her sea-shell ears with a light kiss of the rough fabric of her woolen school vest. Strawberry-blonde hair, neatly plaited into two ordinary braids and yet somehow all the more gorgeous because of it, its coppery tints reflecting like gold in the brilliantly lit room. Pale, tapered fingers squeezed the armrests, and, from that angle, I could detect the slightest breath of rose pinking her cheek, which was plumped and cherry beneath an ocean-mirror eye from the bright, gleaming smile that powerfully bowed her lips.

She was Happy- that is how I will always remember her. Happier than I could ever begin to feel, and so daringly beautiful because of it- a beauty that I _still_ cannot find as easily as she...

"Ah, Miss Pevensie," the Headmistress, garbed in black and white, a single cross draped from her neck, rattled me from my thoughts and I turned to give her a polite smile, "Sorry to keep you waiting."

My chin bent meekly.

"Pardon me, ma'am, but I had just wondered where Lucy had run off to, and-" I began as maturely as I could, but went no further, my sister having realized I was behind her.

"-Susan! Susan, did you hear?" Lucy cried, jumping up from her seat with impossible speed to take me by the hands, her small face awash with joy, "We're to see them! We're going to visit Peter and Edmund!"

I allowed this statement to wash over me for a second. We would see them? My last memory of my brother wouldn't be of him waving through the train windows? I would see him one last time?

"_Visit_-? Lucy, darling, what are you-? _When is it?"_

The Headmistress righted the front of her frock from where she sat in her chair, smiling amiably at the pair of us, whilst Lucy had practically hung herself from my shoulders, so overcome was she with unfiltered glee.

"Their Headmaster phoned me not three hours ago, Miss Pevensie," Mother Renee tried- and failed- to straighten a curling corner of her lips, "It's a school event. "Parent Evening" I think he called it. Next Saturday night at seven o'clock. All family is welcome, not just the parents, you see, and I can't think of why the two of you can't go. Provided you have a proper chaperone."

"'Chaperone'?" I repeated, "But who-?" Next Saturday? Seven o'clock? Was that really so soon, or was it entirely too late?

"She is, Susan!" Lucy piped up from my collarbone, lifting her face to blind me with another dazzlingly grin, "Mother Renee is going with us!"

I looked to the Mother, feeling a little overwhelmed and out of my depth, "Is that…It isn't too much trouble for you…?"

The Mother waved me off with another small smile nestled in her withered lips, "Lucy here has explained your situation. I understand that it is important for you to see them."

The room seemed to grow cold and still. I felt my arms come up to draw my baby sister into my hold, my eyes felt as if lit with flames. Exactly how much had Lucy told this woman? Didn't she know better? How did she know we could trust this… _stranger _with something so precious?

"Explained? Explained what, ma'am?"

She looked surprised at my defensiveness and, by the stiffening of Lucy's small frame, so did my sister.

"Why, that your brother hasn't been feeling well of late. Lucy says he's been struggling at his new school and might be cheered up by some familiar faces."

I nodded distractedly, but it wasn't until Lucy's hushed voice, pitched far too low for the elderly lady to hear, whispered against my collar that everything would be fine, and that she knew more that to give away such secrets, that I finally relaxed with a hot blush filtering into my face. How could I have lost control so easily? Lucy was smarter than people gave her credit for- myself included, it would seem. She was tough. Nothing important ever slipped past her lips.

Why would I start doubting her now?

"I apologize," I said stiffly, and took Lucy's hand, "Thank you for telling us. Come on, Lucy. We really need to leave now."

"Now?" Lucy asked, just as the Headmistress pondered aloud, "So soon?"

I gave my sister a look.

"_Oh_," she whispered, breath catching as blue eyes widened and quickly settled back into her formerly jubilant expression. She immediately turned in my grip to smile at Mother Renee.

"I'm sorry ma'am, but I actually _do_ need to go now. It's only an hour left of library, and I really must get a book for class."

Such a good liar. I worry for her sometimes.

Lucy gave a little curtsy to the elderly lady enthroned by her stately desk, "Thank you so much for your help."

"Anytime, child," the Mother responded pleasantly, "Have a good night- the both of you."

"Goodnight," I said.

"Goodnight!" Lucy called, and together we left the room, seemingly picking up pace as we cleared hall after hall, only stopping when we'd reached an empty classroom. With a grace that spoke volumes of her craft, Lucy picked the lock with her hairpin and gestured me inside, slipping in quietly after. Once the door had clicked shut, her fountain of curiosity burst.

"All right, so what is it that you wanted to tell me about? Have the boys written? Are they all right? Did Edmund do something stupid? No, I bet it was Peter, he always was reckless when it came to Edmund…Are they _both_ okay?"

"Yes. Aslan have mercy, Lu, how you talk. They're both fine. I think... Here, read it to me, will you?" I pulled the letter from my jacket pocket and pressed it, unfolded, into her waiting hand.

"The old language," she whispered breathlessly, snatching the sheaves of paper up to stare avidly at the block font.

"Yes."

"Peter wrote it," she murmured, tracing the inky lines, a small frown appearing in her concentration.

Having nothing to add, I simply said, "Yes," again.

Lucy beamed up at me and set to work on the first line;

_"'To my...dearest sisters, Lucy and Susan...Edmund made...'"_

There was a long pause, I which Lucy's frown grew to be more and more pronounced with each passing second. The waiting did nothing for my nerves.

"Lucy…" I prompted, at long last.

"Hmm? Oh. Susan, take a look at this."

Taking in her apprehensive countenance, I couldn't help but bring a hand to my heart when it fluttered with its own consciousness.

"Is Edmund all right?"

A delicate crease crumpled her brow, and she shook her head a few times, eyes never leaving the paper.

"Well… that's just it. The letter _says _he's fine. Physically, that is. But here. Here, look just here." she pointed at an odd squiggle in confusion, "Peter says '_Edmund made the rugby team last week, which I think will do loads to keep him busy. You both know how Edmund gets when his mind is full…'_"

My head drew back from searching the odd runes, a relieved laugh building in my stomach, "But that's good, isn't it?" More than good. More than I'd hoped for.

"Maybe…" but she was frowning with more comprehension than ever. My laughter died.

"So why is that odd?"

"'_Last week'_, Susan? It's been a couple of months since we sent our letter. And tryouts weren't too long after that, because it's been rugby season for a while. Mailing doesn't take that long to reach our school. Why did this letter- dated over two months ago- not reach us sooner?"

I peeked up at her from where the two of us hunched over the abandoned desk we'd rested the correspondence on, noting the insightful gleam in her eye with a mind full of trepidation, "You think someone did this on purpose?"

"Yes, I-" And then she froze again, eyes clouding over with striking inspiration, her face distant, "On purpose… _Susan_…_!_" My name sounded eons away, "Susan, what did you do with the envelope?"

"What? It's right here…" I tugged it from my other pocket and Lucy, in turn, tugged it from my grip, looking at it from every possible angle in the darkening room, eyes sharply flicking between its address line and the letter held up at its side.

"What are you looking for?"

A grim smile tightened her bottom lip, "This." Slamming both down onto the desk now, she pointed, first at the first line of the address line, and then the sign-off at the bottom of the letter, where my older brother's name was looped in incomprehensible English, "Look- Look at the way the his name is written- on the letter and the envelope- They're different! Not so different that you could tell without looking, but _definitely_ written in someone else's hand-"

We locked eyes.

"Someone else has read this letter. Someone broke open the original, read the letter, and made a new envelope. Someone who doesn't think very highly of girls, I'd say. Who, after all, what kind of girl pays as much attention to the package a present comes in, as the present itself?"

Apparently, that girl wasn't me. Then what she was saying managed to ground itself in my thoughts, rocking me back with the force of its collision.

"Someone knows we're communicating in other-worldly languages," I ground out, my lips bloodless and strangely numb as they wrapped themselves around this new, terrifying concept.

And," Lucy added darkly, "By the way the paper looks so weathered around the edges, I'd say they made sure they understood it fairly well before they let it go."

A shiver ran through me and I drew my jacket closer around my form, "We have to _do something_, Lucy! We have to tell them as _soon_ as we can."

Lucy nodded bravely, tiny fists clenching at her sides, "We will," she promised fiercely, "We will. But, for now, there's nothing we can do. We have to trust in Aslan to help us."

_Aslan help us!_ The Snake was already tasting the air.

**OoOoOoOoO**

**--November 16th, 1944. 3:56 A.M (North Dorms of Hartbee's School for Young Men)--**

I had not dreamt of Beruna since we had returned to aid Caspian in dethroning his Uncle.

It had been the night before the Raid, while I lay curled in the shadow of the How, my bag pillowing my head, the sounds of my siblings breathing (and Edmund's snoring) working to loosen the tensing of my back, my shoulders, my arms, my legs... I found myself relaxing, _really_ relaxing, in a way that spoke volumes of how up-tight I had truly been to begin with.

Anger melting. A sense of home filling me for the first time in a year. Edmund had rolled over in his sleep so that the top of his head was nuzzled against my own. I remember reaching above me where I lay, touching the downy, unruly tufts with a small smile on my face. Pride and love puffed up within my chest, making it difficult to breathe for bliss. Lucy's foot kicked out in her sleep and connected lightly with my boot. Her arm was around Susan' waist. Susan's elbow brushed Edmund's left shoulder. Full circle. We were back. Together.

The Raid would go well, I had thought, reassured by my surroundings, the familiarity of it and yet the sense of something utterly foreign making me excited to begin anew. As long as everything was back to the way things were_ supposed _to be (with me as High King and my family backing me up) then my plan would work. I had faced much worse.

Yes. Much worse, I had drifted off thinking.

Fool that I had been, I had forgotten the Highest King in the equation. Perhaps _that_ little fumble is the reason why I woke screaming that night, seeing Edmund die, speared right through, feeling blind and lost, feeling even blinder when I woke, feeling Ed jerk to life next to me and wordlessly snatching him up, unwilling to let him go even as he uncomfortably protested my movements.

After all, he hadn't actually been touched by me in over a year.

_'Peter- Peter, let go. You're not-' _Bloodthirsty,_ 'I'm not-' _Dead,_ 'You're fine,' _Someone help me_, 'Please calm down, Peter,' _Someone save me_, 'You're going to wake the girls up-' _I had wanted to kill. I was going to kill! I was a murder. I was a monstrosity. I had craved blood again. I had wanted to rip out throats and offal and bathe myself with their life while they shuddered miserably into Death's open embrace. I was a savage dog, a mangy vulture, a mindless shark without any form of leash or restraint. Horrifically pleasing images of glazing eyes and rattling last-breaths rolled around in my mind, searching for a way out.

_'Peter? Peter, are you-?'_

Had to get them out.

_Sword ripping through matted hair and scarred flesh, blood spraying over my face, through my visor... _

I didn't want them in there!

_Gleam of rainbowing arc, silver liquid cutting through red... _

They weren't supposed to be there. Not when I was so safe, so sound.

_Mercy, they cried, even as they hunched over my brother's prone form. Mercy... _

I wasn't supposed to see them! I couldn't not vanish them, no matter what I willed.

_The best I could offer, in regards to their precious mercy, was a quick and relatively painless death... _

I wanted them out-!

_A song, a happy shout of sadistic joy, and the sobbing harmonies of my victims' last gasps for breath, their slit throats a gurgling chorus of thin air they sucked gluttonously in…_

Promptly twisting around from my death grip on my little brother, I expelled the contents of my stomach onto the floor of the How. The images flickered uncertainly out, dimly replaced bit by bit with the vastly improved picture of bile and sick soaking through soft, packed earth.

The memory was both curiously light and frighteningly dark, to me. Bittersweet, one might say. It was a memory of triumph and salvation. It was a memory of death and my first kills. I had gained experience- and lost my naivety. It was when I had first lost my control. I mean_ really _lost it- leaving _nothing_ of me left.

And it was the place where my purpose was found... The place where I first learned that, in order to both satiate the monster within me and to tame it, I needed a Being to whom I could pledge myself to.

Tonight, I dreamt again of my first kills.

_I was fighting at the First Battle of Beruna, where the sloping stones and hills of sweet grass were crushed beneath the brutal heels of our contenders and the cooling shadows of the rocks smothered the hot life-blood of Animals and Beasts alike. My my own blood ran into my eyes, covering my sight with swimming red film. Jadis was but a brief space away, this terror I had only ever heard of, had only ever felt through the inhuman trembling of my brother's form, her mounted chariot slowly creeping through the screaming melee of hateful bodies. That smirk slitted her eyes, thinned her lips, tightened her grip on her reins, filled her with crazed excitement, barely masking her unadulterated pleasure with a look of supreme confidence._

_She wanted me dead, relished the idea of hunting me down like an animal, like all the Animals she had ever hunted down and stabbed to stone during her reign. I would be the prize, the darling in her morbid little collection of lawn ornaments, the Prince to be High King of Narnia._

_I signaled to my Shadow, and the Fire under his guidance raced to swallow the path of her Ice. It's wings roared in a blazing, white-hot, crackling line of raging inferno, devouring the grasslands, licking up soil and plant alike in its greedy pursuit of life. A wall of heat, a fortress of flames. For an instant, I imagined lighting her Castle in similar fashion, and it brought a small grin to my face-_

_A flash, a crystal song, and it was dispelled. Brushed away._

_Thin lips, eyes so gleeful they nearly shut._

_I alone could see the blood that was spilled over her._

_'Draw them to the rocks!'_

_I wanted my army to retreat, to flee her tide of brutal beasts. I wanted them to have time to reciprocate, live and fight another day. I wanted to escape her, a ghostly chill riding my back even as I turned it to her. I wanted to get to Edmund before She and Hers found him first-_

_I would not lose him._

_My mount rode at a gallop, passing up trailing Fauns and Animals as we went. I made as if to slow him, not wanting to appear the coward to the nation that had so fiercely adopted me, intending to save what I could of Narnia. _

_The Unicorn's rippling muscles beneath me clenched in fear and surprise-_

_He screamed as he fell, and I was suddenly, violently jarred, weightless, spinning-_

_A hard, back-breaking landing, wind slammed out of my lungs. Helmet off. Ground shifting beneath me yet. Forms run past me- Red and Gold and Silver. Good, true._

_'No! Stop!'_

_Dancing forms, dazed eyes, strength, honour, love, faith-_

_Hate._

_Stone._

_Gone._

_In a flash of blue ice, he is gone._

_He is gone._

_Gone._

_Dead._

_Gone._

_Gone..._

_Slitted eyes. Sneering, bared teeth. A jerk of the wrist._

_Smile. Love. Eyes closed. Forever? Gone. Gone. My little brother is..._

**"EDMUUUND!"**

_He folds at her feet._

_And I'm gone. _

_Power surges through me, surging and growing and not fading but everlasting, ever coming, never stopping, raw, unfiltered, unstoppable, unflagging POWER..._

_I do not realize, recognize, familiarize with trivial concerns. Life or Death. They are an outcome of success or failure. I am no longer human, but some sort of thoughtless beast of impulse and premonition. _

_With the energy, the strength singing at high speed through my mind, body and soul, time slows to a point where figures other than her are nothing more than blurred, film strips of people, skewed, echoed, faded sound reels of yelling, clanging, and goring. _

_She is set into desperately detailed focus by my hyper alert brain, every shift of every link in her chain mail dress, the single hair from Aslan's shredded mane lifting a centimeter in the slipstream of her snakelike movements, the slightest smudge of her battle make-up beneath her yellow, laughing, proud eyes._

_Proud of what? What did she do that pleased her so? I could not remember, and childish, fleeting curiosity blinked through my mind before dying completely, drowned in a power so cold it was burning me from the inside-out._

_She would die. I would kill her._

_Yet, for all the time I seemed to gain with my inhuman burst of speed, both in mind and body, I could not respond to simplest questions of rational thought. Why was I fighting? Who was I? I confess I didn't- couldn't- recall either. _

_But the How's and the When's still belonged to me. Strangely, the how's and when's of this end-all, be-all face-off managed to be as clear to me as if they had been masterfully choreographed beforehand. When she moved her blade above me- and she would, of this I was certain- I would retaliate with a blow from the right. And when she followed through I would flip my wrist and bring Rhindon up the other way. And when she sneered..._

_I would kill her. She would die._

_Just like Ed-_

_I hurt too much to think about, the pain wrenching my heart and tearing my gut funneling thorugh my body until all of that terror was lodged into one arm, and I came at her with a battle cry, sword above my head, a frenzied sweep at her bonelike form, my vision fading from red...to black..._

_...And suddenly I was looking up at blue sky, with the tip of my own brother's sword spearing through the air to puncture my heart. No time! My strength had left me when I needed it the most. I was weak, unable to wrestle free from a blade pinning my shoulder to the soft earth, I could only think of my imminent death, and the pointlessness of my own life-_

_'Aslan!' My heart cried out, speaking for once what my mouth failed to convey. _

_For once, at once, it was answered._

_A mighty roar shook the world, the cruel ice slipped from her face, fear blooming under its thaw. A rush of light soared over me, claws just missing my cheek. A loud thump was followed by the briefest of pauses. And the pause was echoed in the tearing throat of an enraged Lion._

_'Stand Peter. Pick up your sword.'_

_The bloody point of Jadis' spare weapon was tugged from my limb, and I stumbled to my feet, Rhindon singing haunting lullabies against my metal-plated legs while my body shook in weariness and fast-depleted adrenaline. _

_Golden eyes, filled with life and love rested on me, the blurring figures chasing about the rocks and crags slowly coming back into focus, colours and edges firming in my peripheral little by little until-_

'It is finished.'

_It was a spell, a command. The mindless fog wrapping my mind was pierced with awareness of who I was. Where I was. Who was looking at me with those loving, blessing eyes. _

_And I let out a shaking breath. The Strength completely departed from my body until I had need of it again..._

The dream never changed. Only I ever did.

This time, unlike the time I had woken in the How, terrified by phantom sensations and unable to be calmed by the reality of Edmund anchoring me to the hallowed ground, I woke in an almost lazy manner.

Floating softly to the surface of my consciousness, I willed my eyes to open, and permitted a moment for them to adjust to the darkness of my dorm room. My ears picked up on the heavy, rasping snores of my roommates, the faint clicking of the wall clock, and the sound of my own heartbeat- loud and fast- pounding around the walls of my veins. Above me was a black mass of heavy canopy. Moonlight bleached its edges to silver.

Sitting up, I stared around the dark, yet well-lit room, eyeing each comfy bundle with disinterest. Words began to form in my throat, my mouth opened, and I waited for the thought to fall from my lips.

"The fight is coming."

There. It was out. It was revealed and laid bare in this room that was full of boys, yet left me alone, in this time when words could not be seen on a page, but rippled magnificently throughout the vibrating air.

Thomas shifted in the bed down the row and mumbled out a "Huh?"

"The fight is coming," I repeated, stronger, more assured than before, and he dreamily nodded his head, clearly not nearly as awake as I.

"W-when?" he asked in his daze, covering his mouth with one hand while he yawned widely.

I lay back and pulled the covers up to my chin, boring a hole into the gilded tent of fabric that shelter me.

"Soon."

* * *

**A/N:**

**So, some explanation is given in how Collins went about asking Edmund to join the Deal, though the rest of that particular scene will have to come in later chapters, Lucy and Susan are realizing something is up at the boy's school, and are eager to tell Peter and Edmund their suspicions, and Peter has revealed something about himself that may just help out in the more climatic moments to come. ;D**

**The wait for this was PATHETICALLY EXTENSIVE! I'm so sorry to take so long, but school IS school, and I'm sure many of you know EXACTLY what that means. I wrote a little each day, when I could, so that I could offer something for you all when time permitted. **

**Narnia hasn't left my mind for a minute- especially not when my Humanities teacher cross references things with the series almost EVERY DAY! I swear it's like having Professor Kirke for a teacher. And then there's a kid like Peter in another class who also loves Narnia so…*shrugs* It's a healthy environment for someone like me. XD**

**

* * *

****New Vocabulary:**

Embroil- to involve in an argument or quarrel

Offal- edible organs from an animal carcass

Chivvy- urge to hurry

Senescent- growing old

* * *


	19. Nineteen: Passionate Expressions

**P.E**

**Chapter Nineteen: Passionate Expressions**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: It's not for lack of trying…DX**

* * *

_"He restores my soul. He guides me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me," Psalm 23: 3-4_

* * *

**--Tuesday, November 16th, 1944. 6:03 P.M (West Halls' crux with Entrance Hall, just outside of the Main Offices of Hartbee's School for Young Men)-- **

My intention was to visit Edmund as soon as my last class let out.

I had not seen him all day, not in first, not at lunch, not in the halls. When Thomas Macintosh began to realize I was on edge, he tried to calm me down by giving me his usual pound on the back and by saying that Edmund may have actually listened to my advice for once and simply decided to stay in his dorm to rest for another day.

"Just needs a little R and R, yeah?" he encouraged, eagerly trailing in my footsteps as we worked our way to the entrance hall.

If my violent snort alarmed him, I'm positive that giving into my manic desire to laugh straight out would have made him miss the next stair on the flight we had been descending together-- Ed? Listen to a medic's order for bed rest? Never in a million years...

In fact, I thought-- I was _sure--_ that something was _physically _wrong with him. It was only thing I could think of that would prevent him from jumping on the chance to escape his boredom of staring at the same ceiling tile for hours on end. Or absentmindedly tearing paper into the little, ragged flurries that, I knew, would be dotting the wooden floor next to his bed.

Perhaps the muscles he had pulled in the hog-pile, from the nape of his neck to the tip of his tail bone, had been bothering him again. By Hamilton's input, Ed was lucky to be able to walk, considering how awkwardly he had fallen on his spinal column.

Ed was lucky to be able to do anything, all things considered.

"I think any more R and R would drive Edmund mad," I retorted, veering sharply to the left of the hall, across the crowds of yelling, shoving, laughing boys, where the solid door to Ed's staircase was positioned. Thomas set his face and followed me, flinging himself to the mercy of the throng as he waded across.

Safely arrived on the other side, I wrenched the door handle down and pushed inside the private stairs, closing it behind Thomas as he squeezed in after me with a squawk, the _click_ of the door instantly silenced the orchestra of noise from the outside. Barely a whisper from the din seeped through the oak wood, if you pressed your ear to it, that is. Farther up, it was utterly quiescent. Soundproofed, really. Ed must have liked the calm it gave him.

The stairwell, as it always, was dimly lit, stone steps escalating straight up, with no windows or ventilation. More of a claustrophobic tube than a quiet passage. Thomas tripped a few times as we climbed, but did little to complain. I think he was excited to get to check in on Edmund again, to be honest. Everything that involved Ed or me seemed to excite him... I daresay he considered us his _raison d'etre, _the poor fool.

In truth, I wanted to talk to my brother _alone_, without the intensely focused attentions of Thomas hovering just off to the side. There were things I needed to say to his face that shouldn't be overheard by anyone.

Like about my dream from last night-- that was _definitely_ something Edmund needed to know about so that the two of us could prepare for whatever lay ahead. 'Soon,' I had said. But just how _soon_ was 'soon?' How much time did that leave us? If there was going to be a fight, and I was sure there was, then Ed _deserved_ to know.

And I-- Well to be quite blunt, I was missing my brother like I would miss a limb.

Ed and I had not spoken to each other in _weeks-- _not without the other being unconscious, of course-- and I, at least, knew that the overbearing strain of weariness and the inability to concentrate on anything going on around me had its root in the fact that I was _missing_ him. My thoughts never_ left _him.

They _do_ say that a man without a shadow is a man without a soul.

It was like trying to function in battle after fasting for weeks on end. I was weakening without him, without a daily dose of sarcastic quips and the anchoring touch of his hand on my arm, or its light pressure patting my back. Thomas' smacks were hardly a substitute for that kind of contact. Edmund was my strength, without which I would quickly be overcome.

'_So, when he leaves you for good, how do you expect to go on…?'_

This thought twisted its sharp fins about my head, tearing at optimistic arguments against it, and I was grateful when I counted the nineteenth step, cautiously puttning out a hand until it contacted with another barrier of thick wood, and slowing to a halt.

Thomas, that fatuous Scotsman, did not. He ran smack into the doorframe instead, the collision emitting an impressively loud _thud._

"_Ouch!_ For the love of--!" I heard a scuffle of his shoes kicking and scraping energetically at the steps, a few dirty words punctuating each echoing clap of rubber soles against granite.

"Language," I commented, finding his shoulder to prevent him from wind milling back down the steps, "Come on, are you all right?"

"I think I-- I busted my nose!' He sounded quite beside himself, and I was briefly flashed back to that one chilly morning when Ed had been hiding the premonition of his Gift from me, and Thomas had run up to tell the coach that Jay had broken his nose. Was that really only a few weeks ago?

"Hold on, I'll check it in just a second."

I tried the doorknob.

It jiggled a bit in my hold, but remained, alarmingly, locked. Well, _that_ was new.

"Ed?" I called, and removed my hand from the handle and rapped firmly against the grainy surface of the door, "Edmund? Are you in there?"

"I'm... I'm bleeding," Thomas said softly, his voice hushed in awe. I turned around to see what he was talking about, but was reminded of my current blindness when all I saw was a thick sheet of black, which refused to budge, however I squinted or blinked my eyes.

"Oh, God. Oh…" with a whimper, and a hiss of his jacket against the stone wall he had been apparently leaning against, Thomas fainted dead away.

For the love of the Lion...

I deliberated a moment, distractedly bemused, then turned and began to wildly pound on the door.

"Ed! EDMUND! Come on and wake up! Thomas has gone and fainted, you lump! EDMUND! Are you even in there?!" I began to furiously yank and twist my hold on the handle, even going so far as to take a step back to nail the middle of the wooden surface with the heel of my foot, yet the door remained obstinately in place.

Why had he locked it? Could he really be that deeply asleep? Had he just gone for a stroll? Why didn't he answer me?

A thought slammed into place.

Oh, Aslan...

Oh, Aslan- Oh, _no_. Oh, no, oh, no, oh, Aslan don't- Oh, no...

"_Ed?" _I whispered, my head going light with fear and knees buckling beneath me, my limp grasp on the knob slipped away, until I was simply standing there, trapped in hollow middle ground, unable to see my barrier, an unconscious boy toppled at my feet, and the strong impulse to pass out as well nearly overpowered me, trying to shutter my mind from the stone walls closing in-

_Stone._

Edmund didn't answer me, even though my throat was raw as I say his name, my voice screaming around the small tunnel, deafening me.

_Gone._

A crack of light worked its way beneath his door from the sunlight entering his window on the inside.

_Slits._

It was teasing the edge of my feet.

_Sneer._

And still, nothing.

_Gone._

I couldn't hear.

_Throbbing. _

I couldn't breathe.

_Silence._

Oh, Aslan, I couldn't _live_-!

_Forever...?_

I'd failed.

_My little brother...is...?_

A click, and suddenly I could see the separate planks of his door.

"Peter?"

I whirled in the tunnel that was now flooded with light, and sound, and _my brother _whowas-!

He looked curiously up at me from the foot of the stairs, haloed in the radiant sunlight blasting in from behind him, then caught sight of something at my feet, his beautiful face twisting in alarm.

"Is he all right? What happened?" as he started up the stairs, I saw that he was limping a bit, and knew that I was right in my assumption that his back was ailing him.

"_Don't_--!"

He froze at the authority that drenched my words, and I lowered my voice, swallowing the pulsing terror lodged in my throat.

"Don't, Ed. It's okay. I'll bring him down to you. Just… stay put."

With trembling hands, I leaned over and collected Thomas, hanging his flopping form over my right shoulder (taking extra care to mind the blood leaking in a thin ribbon from one nostril), and made my way back down to the school level, hand using the wall as support for my knocking knees.

Ed's own hand shot out and steadied me as I slipped a bit on the last step, the firm grip on my upper arm, my right arm, nearly causing me to drop Thomas like a sack of potatoes and fling myself completely at my little brother in relief; its warmth flew through the fabric of my sweater in seconds. A jolt shot from the site down to my heart, which shuddered as though coming back to life, its throbbing ache working its way up my throat until I couldn't draw a proper breath.

I gulped.

**OoOoOoOoO**

**--Medical Wing, Private (Teacher's) Entrance Hallway, behind the Main Offices. 6:44 P.M--**

"Pevensie!"

Without thinking, Peter and I snapped to a rigid and immediate salute, though I confess Peter's may have been a bit more handicapped, considering the body draped over his shoulder like a fresh kill. This couldn't have looked at all innocent…

Mr. Hamilton marched up the back hall from behind us, dark eyes taking in the scene with his typical, tough-faced concern.

"Problem, boys?"

"Thomas tried to walk through a closed door," Peter said, slightly uncomfortable. We had almost made it to the hospital wing without attracting too much attention, after all, and to be caught in act of sneaking a unconscious boy into the typically locked room _was_ a little awkward.

For all three of us.

"Knocked _himself_ out cold?" Hamilton found this difficult to believe, as his puckered eyebrows so thunderously suggested.

"Realized he was bleeding, sir," my brother corrected, though slowly, as though he regretted having to subjugate Macintosh to that kind of humiliation.

I could understand- while _I_ was getting up the nerve to speak to Peter face-to-face on the issue of my secret deal with Collins, my_ brother_ had been tailed by a sort of puppy-eyed fan club. That Thomas had been eager and loyal enough to let Peter warm up to him was a testament to the boy's integrity. They had become friends, and revealing a trait so flimsy (such as fainting at the appearance of a nosebleed) must have felt a little like betrayal.

"Let me see him, if you would, Blond."

Peter obliged, bringing Thomas off of his shoulder and into his arms as one would a child, so that Hamilton could check the damage at a better viewpoint. The coach reached forward and, with surprising gentleness, tugged back one eyelid to see the whites, then felt about for his wrist, keeping mark with his stopwatch for a few seconds. He shook his head and sighed with a profound sense of longsuffering.

"Ah, out like a light, eh Lamp?"

"Um, yes sir?" Peter guessed, and shot me a confused look. I shrugged, a weightless, warm sensation floating up from my ribcage when he smiled softly in return.

"Not you," Hamilton scowled, mustache bristling as he puffed out a bit, "The Not-So-Bright one here."

"You're in a good mood, sir," I commented, twisting my lips so that they appeared serious, rather than uncurtain the grin that was stubbornly trying to muscle through.

"Eh? So I am, Brunette. So I am. You know why, I'm guessing?"

Peter and I exchanged glances.

"You don't then." He motioned for Peter to hand him the slack form of our peer, hand flapping in a 'come here' signal, and took Thomas up like he weighed little more than a small babe, rather than an average-sized young adult.

Peter rolled his shoulders experimentally, tendons and bones clicking and popping as they settled back into place, "No, Mr. Hamilton. Why?"

"Parent Evening, Pevensies! That's _why_. Haven't your teachers told you all yet?" then, before Peter or I could even bother to send one another a second unsure glance, he barreled ahead, shifting Thomas a bit in his arms, "It's this weekend! What kind of slack-jawed imbeciles are teaching you lot anyway?"

"Well-"

"Never mind. I don't want to know. But yeah. Parent Evening. Your families get to come and visit you all. Check on school work. Socialize. Whatever! Anyway, it's the one, blessed day of the year that I don't have to bother knocking your thick skulls together."

A full minute was dedicated to heavy, winded silence. Then--

"Family… Our family is coming… to see _us_?"

Oh, Aslan, if Peter started to cry like it sounded he would, then neither of us would make it through the rest of this little chat without blubbering like a two year olds. I found the back of his hand with mine and pressed on it, my upper body seemed to be fully relying on his stone-like stature to keep from falling over in sudden, light-headed relief.

'_Mum and Dad…Susan…__**Lucy**__…! Oh, Aslan, thank you. Thank you for this one last chance…'_

"Yep. Saturday at seven," the man paused for breath and took a closer look at his medical assistant, "You okay there, Blond?"

"Yea- Yes, sir. I'm fine," Peter swiped at his eyes with the back of his shirt sleeve and gave a closed-lip smile that, I could just barely tell, trembled. Hamilton, who was back into his Awkwardly-Trying-To-Pull-The-Conversation-Onto-Less-Emotional-Ground phase, hefted Thomas a little higher in his hold and cleared his throat deeply.

"Would've though you two would be more excited than _that_, you know," again, he hesitated, "You two are as close to your family as you are to each other, right?"

"We're _very_ close to our sisters," Peter nearly snapped, as though anything less was the most criminal act one could commit, and I squeezed his tensing palm roughly.

"And our parents," I reminded him, "We love our parents as well."

Peter nodded, but Hamilton's attention was now aimed at me, as though he had just noticed I was there and couldn't quite figure out how I had managed to get to Peter's side without him realizing. His eyes, dark and brooding, swept a visual over my torso and legs, how I leaned helplessly against Peter. How I had to resettle my feet ever now and then to keep from falling over. How I winced when I did so.

In my defense, my back did hurt quite a bit. Each step seemed to jar my entire body, from toes to jaw, and the only reason I was putting up with it was to be able to speak with my brother. And because I was bored of lying on my bed counting ceiling tiles. But mostly because of my brother.

Hamilton's face was quickly becoming apoplectic, plump and bristled with five o'clock shadow, mustache puffing up like an angry cat, a dark red filling his cheeks the longer he observed me. A muscle ticked threateningly in his jaw.

Have I mentioned how much that man reminded me of our dear General? Allow me to reiterate.

"_Just __**what**__ do you think you're __**doing, **__Brunette?!_"

The force of his yell jostled Thomas in his arms, who groaned a bit but didn't come back to full awareness, and Peter's entire form flexed next to me, like he half-expected a need to fling himself in front to save his fellow king from the Coach's wrath. And I? I shrank away from his suddenly towering form in a way I hadn't since that fateful week prior to my family's journey back through the wardrobe. Pot belly and spectacles both seemed to vanish. His thinning dome didn't even seem to register in my stunned mind. At that moment, my vision swam and a phantom was conjured before my very eyes.

He was my Weapon's Master _incarnate_. And he was going to show me Hell.

"Up and about are we? You hard-headed _idiot! _I thought I told you to stay in bed until your brother here told you otherwise! You want to make your back worse, eh? Well?! Answer me, Pevensie!"

"I-" my dried throat required a hasty clearing, "I- I'm… sorry? Sir?" As with Oreius, my wit (far smarter than I was) had fled to the hills at the first sighting of impending doom, leaving me virtually defenseless, "It won't happen again."

"I should say not," Hamilton growled, then shifted his rage to my gaping brother, "And you? What's your excuse for letting him?"

Peter blinked, as though hurt by the accusation, and his lower lip, to my utter amazement, jutted out in the slightest, most tactile pout I'd ever seen.

"I've missed him."

Hamilton pulled his attack up sharp, and I twisted my head to look back at my brother so quickly that it audibly cracked, the aftershock of the movement sending a flare of pain down my spine.

I didn't care. I only had eyes for Peter, who now smiled in a sort of dry, sad way at the P.E teacher, his golden eyebrows raised from bright eyes, body relaxed into a shape that screamed openness. His fingers twined through mine and tightened, and his shoulder came forward to wing around my own. He continued softly, mellifluously, to Mr. Hamilton, who appeared to have been caught up by a pair of electric blue headlights;

"I haven't really had a chance to spend time with him, since he's been studying so hard, and because he was really hurt during the last game. He _never_ complains, sir. I missed him so I went to see him with Thomas, but then… Well, that's where all this mess started and… He _wanted _to come with me, sir, and I just _couldn't_ say no."

Here Peter shrugged helplessly, his other arm coming up to wrap around me from the front in a loose hug, "I mean, _look_ at him, sir. He's been cooped up _forever_. A little walk might actually be good for him, and I wouldn't let him push himself too far. He _is_ my baby brother, after all."

His palm released my arm and gently ruffled my hair, and he smiled indulgingly down at me while I stood frozen, a few of his teeth gleaming just at the corner of his lips. Hamilton looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, peaking between the two of us in hot-collared unease.

"But anyway," Peter began again, his voice suddenly louder and brooking a slight undertone of authority, tearing his gaze from mine to look again at the grown man, "Thomas should probably be taken to the Hospital wing before long. Be taken care of and such… Don't you agree, sir?"

"Um…Yes. Right, Blond. I'll just…" he flicked a confused gaze down on his burden, then back up at Peter, as though needing further direction.

"You can take him, sir. I'll make sure Edmund gets back to his dorm without hurting himself," Peter said maneuvered his hugging arm so that it now hooked beneath my armpit, relieving my back of some weight.

Hamilton nodded, a bit mechanically, then turned tail and stalked off to the med bay, Macintosh flopping in his arms.

When he had vanished around the bend in the hall, Peter began to laugh.

"It's been some time since I've last done that," he hooted, struggling not to lean too much on me while he fell to the mercy of his giggles, "Oh, poor Mr. Hamilton!"

"You mean-- " my face flushed in embarrassment, "-- Aslan's _Mane_, Peter. Could you warn me the next time you try using your courtly influence on teachers? I thought you'd lost your mind," I grumbled, batting his hands away so that I could walk on my own, "_And_ you managed to make me look like a _valetudinarian_!" As ruffled as I was, my wit seemed to have returned, at least in terms of grandiloquence.

"Aren't you one, though?" Peter teased, and I punched his shoulder moodily before turning to limp away from him. He started after me, pacing his strides so that he just kept ahead.

"Hey, now. Where do you think you're off to?"

"My room. This sickly child needs to rest, remember?"

"Well, that's fine," Peter agreed, catching my upper arm to stop me in my march, "But I actually do need to speak with you. About a dream I had last night."

"A dream?" then I realized our proximity to the offices and frowned, casting my eyes about suspiciously in the shadows. If my killer was as close as he felt… "Not here. Come on. We can talk in my dorm. I have the key."

Peter seemed to read my mind, and his own, magnificent stare turned dark with possessiveness.

"And I also meant what I said about protecting you from harm," he said firmly, not bothering to drop his voice, "The man who tries to hurt you-- _any_ of you-- is the man who'll _pray_ for death."

My heart gave a painful throb in my chest, creeping, chilling dread strangling it with its heavy load, but there was nothing for it; Peter had, indeed, sworn that to me before. Many of those occasions residing in Narnia, though. I had _never_ liked the idea of him killing for vengeance.

My brother and king was not a cold-blooded murderer. Had he slain men? Of course he had- more than I had, for sure.

But killing for your own satisfaction was different.

It was disturbingly thrilling.

I shook my head, "Don't talk like that when Mum and Dad get here, will you? I think it will throw them for a loop."

"That's _right!" _Peter cried, all smiles, seriousness cast to the winds, and goofily hugging me to his side in a fit of ecstasy, "The girls, too! Ed, we get to see the girls! Can you believe it?"

"It's almost too good to be true," I confessed, but let myself bask in the warmth that seeped into my chest while he held me to him, unsure of when I might be able to feel it again.

'_Susan, Lucy, I pray Aslan brings you safely… Your brothers are anxious to see you alive and well…'_

* * *

**A/N:**

… **I'll give you three guesses as to what the next chapter is titled. XD**

**So Peter's off to tell Ed about his dream, but poor Ed never seems to get a chance to tell him about the Deal! Mayhap in the next chapter…? **

**Any grammar mistakes, spelling mistakes, punctuation mistakes, or anything that seemed to irk you, please be sure to review about! Correction makes the writer better. :D**

**To those who feel aggravated at the prospect of writing long, detailed reviews, a one-worded review is encouraged! "Good." "Bad." "Stupid." These are all excellent ways to respond.**

**Have a great rest of your weekend!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

**Post Script: ****Contrary to popular belief, this chapter is NOT a filler. Something actually happened that will come into play later on. Several somethings. Please read with discretion. ;D**

**

* * *

****New Vocabulary:**

**Mellifluous- sweet sounding**

**Valetudinarian- a person of poor health, or who is unnecessarily worried about their health**

**Grandiloquence- using pompous language**

_**Raison d'etre- **_**reason for one's existence **

**Fatuous- foolish or silly**


	20. Twenty: Parent Evening

**P.E**

**Chapter Twenty: Parent Evening**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: Me? I totally own Narnia. I mean, come on. Death? So not going to stop me from continuing my series…**

* * *

"_I will be glad and rejoice in your love, for you saw my affliction and knew the anguish of my soul," _

_Psalm 31:7_

* * *

For the hundredth time that night, Lucy reached between us at the long dining table, possessively grabbing my fingers within her delicate ones and (for the hundredth time that night) I felt my heart try to beat its way out of my deliriously light chest as I tightened the hold, the warmth and fairytale-like quality of my happiness threatening to send me to the polished floor in a dead faint.

Aslan! Was it possible to feel so weightless? I wouldn't have been taken aback in the slightest if I had found that it was all a brilliant dream...

From the instant Peter and I had spotted our sisters stepping from their cab and crossing the autumn-dried lawn, there was nothing on God's green earth that could have stopped us from barreling down the hillside, suits and all, to sweep them up into our arms and never allow their blessed feet to touch back down to the ground, our breaths misting into clouds high above our heads.

Laughing, crying, shrieking, the four of us were a sight that Hartbee's had likely never seen, nor, would ever have the fortune of seeing again. What with Peter kissing the girls repeatedly, sometimes on the cheeks, sometimes with a peck full on their laughing mouths, and taking turns with sweeping them up bridal-style, twirling them around until they pleaded for him to set them upright again, the girls moved to grateful tears in his powerful hold.

Lucy had glued herself to my side, kissing my cheek until both glowed red and even I was yelling with delight, my injured back quite forgotten in the dancing fray. I, instead, took to my older brother's fine example and lifted both sisters clear from the swaying lawn, grinning like an idiot at their giggled protests, wanting to know how they'd done, studying needle-point, wanting just to _touch_ them; to see if these miraculous visions were solid in form or just a wishful delusion.

Susan didn't stop asking questions for one, breathless minute; did we get their letters? Did we miss them? How were we feeling? How much had we been eating? (Peter had given her an extra spin just to put her interview to rest.) Roaring with chest-shaking mirth, he was soon under attack when she put on a merry show of slapping his arm and wind-swept hair and virtually any inch of him that she could reach until he was forced to admit defeat.

Our High King fell to the ground (regardless of his forced finery) in a testament of his submission, hand thrown over the kerchief folded within his breast pocket, as though fatally wounded, and while he was down, the three of us pile atop him, tickling his sides and hugging one another until none of us could breathe for giddiness.

The good Mother Renee had been rather amused to watch our antics.

We didn't give a fig either way.

Separated for too many uneasy and uncertain months had given the four of us a sort of reckless desperation to cram as much love and affection as we could manage into our every motion. One kiss was worth a thousand pledges of devotion. One hug was a million embraces. One smile was a week's measure of warm breezes and sunny ocean sides. My face ached for grinning without respite.

Yet, for all our merriment, I did not forget my older brother's words of warning to me only days before.

'_Edmund, has your sense gotten any stronger?'_

'_Not particularly. In fact, ever since the game, it's gotten a bit weaker.'_

_Peter looked up sharply at that, hands untwisting from my comforter, eyes sparking with intensity. We had just arrived back in my private dorm after befuddling poor Mr. Hamilton, and Peter had made sure that I had been put to bed immediately, tucking me under the covers with deft hands and paternal gaze, placing himself at the side of my mattress once I had been comfortably situated in my dense burrow of padded quilts and afghans, too agitated to sit or relax. _

_I suppose that should have tipped me off about something. _

'_Weaker?'_

_I nodded, leaned my chin against my propped up fist and frowned at him from where I lay, slowly moving as to not upset my back, 'Why? You think that's a bad thing?'_

'_No, I-' he shifted closer, 'I don't know Edmund. I have a bad feeling that something is going to happen. I had that dream again last night.'_

_My heart flared, aching on behalf of my king. _

'_That dream' meaning __**that dream**__? The one where I—'_

'_-- The one where you die and I lose my mind, yes,' he finally threw himself down next to me and rubbed angrily at his forehead, 'The one I always seem to have before a major battle.'_

_I watched his profile quietly, tracing the lines of his drawn face with my eyes as his not-so subtle hint at things to come sank into my mind. I knew the dream he spoke of. Before our battle with the Ogres, he had woken me in the middle of the night, panting, screaming…_

…_Laughing._

_It was only after I had bodily forced him to answer that I managed to drag the truth out of him; Had I honestly died at Beruna, my brother would have lost his mind with rage. The acts he had confessed to have done in that battle… The crazed joy that he miserably whispered had overtaken him for such atrocities… I shook my head, eyes shut against the faded images._

_But that was in the past. Aslan had granted him control when he asked it._

'_What do you propose we do?'_

_He rolled his head towards me and reached across his chest to take my free hand, squeezing it gently, 'We have to tell the girls, Edmund. We can't keep something like this from them. It wouldn't be fair.'_

'_Aye, Provis. You're right. But…'_

'_But?'_

'_Let's not tell them the instant they arrive. We're not the only ones who've been worrying about all of this…'_

'_All right, Ed,' he leaned over me and kissed my forehead softly, 'now get some rest, little brother__.__ I'll be here when you wake up.'_

**OoOoOoOoO**

"Edmund, eat your peas," Susan hissed frettingly into my ear.

So content was I that I instantly speared five of the dratted things I _typically_ eschew on my fork and blissfully stuffed them into my mouth, swallowing without a grimace. What little brother would have been as thrilled as I, to have my elder sister bossing me around? It went against ever fiber of little-brother makeup.

Peter must have agreed with me, because he shot me a look that was somewhat resembling of horror, confusion, and bemusement. I shrugged, lifted a corner of my mouth to flash my teeth at him, and then saluted him with another forkful, trying not to laugh when he pulled a face in my stead.

Honestly- What kind of person actually _likes_ peas?

Up and down the length of the banquet tables, rich families made small talk with one another, delicately touching on non-personal subjects like the economy and their child's recent academic endeavors. It was a rather dreary thing to have to listen to from all sides. Almost as bad as war meetings, but lacking the promise of action.

Lucy rolled her eyes when two mothers (viragos, really) began an icy sort of cat fight, verbal jabbing each other with their son's superiority in… Well. Just about everything.

"Harold has top marks," one said, her fake nose twitching with pride, "Does yours have anything… notable about him?"

The other, her hair piled atop her small head, bristled visibly, "Quite. Jason is the most popular boy in his grade. I hear that he came in first in their spelling bee- Wasn't that the contest that _your_ boy fainted in? The poor thing…"

It was a bittersweet thing that our own mother couldn't have taken part in the…er…_festivities_. She had called us merely hours beforehand, telling us that she couldn't come. She had something to do, but would we tell Lucy and Susan that she loved us all with all her heart, and that she would visit us very, very soon? Peter and I assured her that we would, but felt slightly guilty that we didn't mind her absence. After all, the four of us were accustomed to taking care of ourselves.

So it was just the "Pevensie kids" again; staying out of the adult's hair and watching with wry memories as they verbally pulled at each other's strings. Lucy and I had even begun a contest where we compared parents to their children, which was far more interesting than one would think. Like dogs take after their masters, the boys at Hartbee's were miniature copies of their sires, similar not only in looks, but in mannerisms as well.

Thomas, for example, was talking animatedly with an older gentleman with a large bald crown, and a wreath of wiry white hairs around the circumference of his head, who responded with equal (if not greater) enthusiasm. To the other side of her husband, Thomas' stepmother (a very young looking woman with soft brown ringlets and empty eyes) was picking at her veal. It would seem that Thomas took more after his birth mother in appearance than his father. Occasionally Thomas would gesture in Peter's direction and his father would nod seriously, thumbing his short beard in excited thought.

He was probably finding a spot for my brother in the next edition of their encyclopedia.

Cain Jacobs was the one Lucy had the easiest time in recognizing, like from Peter's reports on our run-ins with the boy. His father was as stiff as a board, smiled very little, and spoke even less. His mother was rather plain, with pale skin and dark hair, but was a well spring of information for those who could comprehend Spanish.

"_La comida esta deliciosa!_ Cain!" she exclaimed excitedly, though her son's name sounded more like "Ken" and he twitched when she tugged at his coat sleeve, and rambled on for a bit, all the while gesturing with child-like animation to their dishes.

Cain tentatively prodded his veal, frowning and rubbing a thumb over his silver locket, but otherwise did nothing. Instead, he ignored his mother the more she tried to force a portion between his clenched teeth, and took small breaks to glare at Thomas, where he grinned teasingly at his best friend from down the row of plump politicians.

"What do you think she's saying?" Lucy whispered, and Susan shook her head, eyes wrinkled but bright. I shared a look with Peter, who shrugged, but didn't look any less tickled by Jacob's embarrassment. He really hadn't let Jacob's off the hook for being so rude to us (well, _me_) earlier in the year. Where his family is involved, Peter can be quite the grudge-holder.

_DING- DING- DING!_

A clear, bell-like ring caught our attention; Collins was tapping his fork against the side of his crystal glass, standing up from his seat at the head of the table so that the whole of the dining hall would be distracted from their refined pallets to look at him.

Personally, I found the peas more appealing.

"He hasn't gotten any prettier in the past few months," Lucy murmured into my ear, still wary of the man who had settled himself in our living room only five months or so prior, "Poor you."

"Sacrifice," I repeated my Order's motto into her sea-shell ear, only half joking, "It's all about sacrifice."

"May I take this opportunity to welcome you all to this, our fifty-second Family Night of Hartbee's School for Young Men!" he spread out his arms, welcoming them all in as eagerly as a child welcomes candy, "Many of you have travelled far to join us tonight. I can assure you, that our school year has progressed marvelously. Your children are a light to future generations. It is clear that the fate of Great Britain is in capable hands."

Many parents smirked quietly into their roast lamb. I attempted to snort just as inconspicuously into mine.

"Following our meal- compliments of the school's excellent dining staff- there will be dancing held in the gymnasium, which has been converted to better suit the evening. Comfortable seating has been arranged for those who would wish a short break after such a filling meal," he quirked a charming smile and allowed a moment for the ladies and gentlemen of his little court to finish their dry chuckles, "I wish the best of health upon you all."

His eyes met mine, and a hot thrill skittered down my spine before he raised his glass to the group at large, and taking a deep swallow of the crimson liquid staining the inside of the delicate goblet.

I shuddered and tore my gaze away, finding it lodged in the vision of my plate, which, loaded with all sorts of rich foods, made my stomach churn angrily.

"Edmund?" Susan's soft voice warmed my ear, and I felt Lucy pet my upper arm soothingly. Peter's line of sight could have caught my hair on fire, if he'd stared any more avidly.

"Ed?" his voice was careful, almost diplomatically so, "You all right?"

"Fine," I said, and turned my face up to beam at them all, "Just a burp."

"Oh, Edmund," my older sister retracted her hand as though burned, "That's _disgusting_."

"It's perfectly natural," I protested, and produced one on command just to further annoy her, "See?"

Lucy giggled, Peter grinned, and Susan looked like someone had added too much lemon peel to her smoked salmon. All three were at ease in the familiar routine of our etiquette debate.

Good.

**OoOoOoOoO**

Bad. This was very bad.

I don't know how I could have missed it. I shouldn't have missed it. _Peter_ shouldn't have missed it. We should have been prepared for the terrible things to come, to find a way to ward off potential threats that would hound us until we dropped from exhaustion. What kind of brothers were we, to completely forget that ancient foe?

"An all boy school," Peter said hollowly, helplessly looking on, "I can't believe we didn't think of it..."

"Cheer up, Pete," I said, my teeth clenched so hard I thought I could hear them cracking against one another, "At least it's not as bad as Narnia."

We both watched the dance floor like starving wolves, our hackles rising with every minute that passed.

"Ed," Peter finally growled, "This is _much_ worse than Narnia."

"Next dance, Peter," I swore, physically restraining myself by downing another glass of punch and crushing the gold-filigreed napkin in my white-knuckled fist, "We claim the next dance." And Aslan help the poor unfortunate who got in our way.

In hind sight, in probably wasn't our brightest moment, to realize that we had unwittingly invited our darling sisters to take part in Parent Evening, where at least a thousand boys, starved for female attention, had been cooped up for several months. Never mind the various other sisters that had been dragged by their own parents for the sake of reputation; Peter and I were practically idols within our classes, and our sisters were currently the most coveted people in all of upper-crust England.

Susan hadn't been able to sit down once in that past hour without a lord's son, or an heir, or flat-out French duke asking for a turn about the gymnasium floor. Once, she had even danced with _Cain Jacobs_, of all people, and she looked quite flushed after he let the next boy have his turn, which forced me to jerk Peter back by the jacket collar, for fear of a violent outburst. And _Lucy-_! Aslan, I was going to have to remove Peter from the room if one more boy tried to hold her hand. Our sisters could hold their own, as far as Peter and I were concerned.

The song began to slow, making a move to end on "do" just as surely as Peter (who had scooted to the very edge of his seat) was preparing to launch himself across the room to race fifty other boys to where our sisters revolved. Leave to Peter to play by society's rules.

I shot him a look and raised my eyebrow, and when he gave me a glance that clearly read "What?" I rolled my eyes and walked straight into the throng of twirling bodies, wading my way across the floor. Peter hastily stood and started after me.

Sometimes, rules are begging to be broken.

"Hey!_ I _called the next dance with her!"

Or, in this case, someone's nose.

I ignored the cracking, pubescent voice, letting Peter handle it so that I could reach my little sister when the song promptly ended.

"You're a great dancer; What academy did you say you studied at?"

"I didn't. Thank you for the dance, though, you're fairly skilled yourself," Lucy gave a genuine smile to her last partner, and a Queenly curtsey that made the poor boy blush a fiery red. I laughed behind my fist.

"Milady?" I asked, bowing low as the other boy scuttled away, "Have I skill enough?"

The Darling of Narnia turned her glittering eyes to my invitation, which floated in the form of my hand, outstretched and waiting, only feet above the gleaming floor. A smirk took my lips when she grinned with her little pearls and gladly accepted.

We were off.

Taking my little sister by the waist, I sent us careening into the oncoming traffic of ball-goers, twisting every now and then to spin us out of the way of a messy collision. The other guests were slightly put out by our backwards movements, some boys shot snide comments at us as we passed, a few mothers and fathers glaringly lifted their noses in our direction. Who raised us? Didn't we know we were going the wrong way? Who did we think we were?

But it was worth it to have Lucy laugh with her head thrown back and her hair sent streaming by our fast pace, the way she had when we were in Narnia.

When had been _custom_ for the Four Sovereigns to dance against the grain.

We completed the loop round the room, having shot by Susan and Peter on the way, blowing raspberries at them in passing, barking out laughs when Peter stuck his tongue out in retaliation and Susan could only roll her eyes, trying not to smile at such juvenile measures. I planned to have her laughing by our next encounter, maybe spin Lucy so quickly her uniform dress would bell-out on the bottom.

'_Oh…'_

It was when we had reached the other side of the room that I felt a tub of freezing water crash unceremoniously over my head.

The cold wave that hit me so suddenly, so ungraciously, very nearly knocked the breath from my lungs. I felt my chest catch and still, filled with air so icy it burned to inhale any more. My vision swam and faded slowly to white, my eyes scrambling to keep my milieu in sights for as long as I could. It was difficult; My world was slowly but surely filling with tall spires and blanketed courtyards, my heart slowing to a timid cadence.

Lucy was trapped in my hold, which had frozen just as quickly as my breathing, and she was worriedly asking me what was wrong. I couldn't answer, I didn't know, just breathed as slowly and deeply as I could, hoping it would clear my view or at least my sluggish thoughts. Eventually, she sounded as though she was standing down a long hallway, or speaking to me from the other side of a thick wall. Or screaming my name from across a solid lake.

Oh, no. I didn't want to go back there.

"Lu…" but it required the last of my air to say as much.

_'I'm fainting..._' my mind was surprised to realize, and, when my sight had completely disappeared, I did just that.

**OoOoOoOoO**

It would seem that Ed and I weren't the only ones with bad news to bear.

Laughing though Susan and I were while Edmund and Lucy spun in dizzy circles around the circuit of the stuffy room, the Gentle Queen was steadily filling me in on things that had passed beneath my very nose.

"And then Lucy said that the envelope had been tampered with- Like someone had opened it, studied the letter for a very long time and then sent it on it's way."

"Someone tried to cipher the Old Narnian," I affirmed, jaw clenching against the chill in my heart.

"It's more than- Oh, Peter, Lucy thinks that they only gave up the letter when they understood it!" Susan whispered, looking tired and distressed at the very thought, "What if it's the same person who…?"

My gut twisted against itself. Oh, Ed…

"You two think his killer handled the letter?"

And if he had understood what I had written… Oh, Aslan, I had written _everything_ down! Our thoughts, feelings, hopes, fractured clues- Anything to aid our sisters in figuring it all out.

But the killer had still passed it on. Did that mean he knew we would never work out answers? Or was he _hoping_ we would?

Susan shook her head, graceful curls rebounding against the air, "I don't know. I don't _know_, Peter! I just have this terrible feeling…"

'_I don't know Edmund. I have a bad feeling that something is going to happen…'_

My own words from only a few nights beforehand echoed unheeded in the back of my mind.

I paused us in mid-movement, clutching my sister to me as I scanned the hall, "Come on, Susan. We have to find the others bef-"

"_EDMUND!"_

The sharp cry alerted me instantly, firing me into motion faster than bullet, and the next thing I knew, I was pushing past a line of huddled students and teachers, ignoring the protests and complaints as some required more force to remove from my path. I don't remember if I was still holding onto Susan or not. I only remember that horribly familiar picture I opened the crowd to find, and the sudden blast of adrenaline that left the world to turn calmly, fluidly, as though my own world had sped up. Going so quickly and my mind had yet to catch up.

Lucy was still standing, if barely, with Edmund slumped fully against her uniform's school crest, arms dragging, legs collapsed, his full weight driving our sister backwards as she pushed back with all her strength, head lolling against her small shoulder. She was patting the side of his face in a near panic, one arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders to keep him from falling to the floor, calling his name and trying to revive him. When I cleared the crowd, she met my eyes over his head.

"Peter!" she exclaimed, "_Peter, help!"_

Without another word, I found myself practically teleported to her side, and had lifted Edmund's limp form from her person, my own knees nearly buckling at his considerable weight.

"Edmund?" I called loudly, and mimicked my sister, slapping his face with a little more force than she. A small red patch bloomed where my palm had struck, though, as I pressed my hand against his skin, I realized that it may not have been entirely my doing, "Ed? Where you sick earlier?" A second patch appeared on the other side of his face, the perfect twin of the first.

'Crushed, pierced, poisoned…' Where did fever come into play?

Voices above us shunted at my thoughts, jarring them every time I managed to wrestle them back on track.

"What happened?"

"Is he all right?"

"Who is that?"

"Isn't that the boy who got injured in the last game?"

"Edward, isn't it?"

"Poor thing- you think he's still hurt?"

"Someone get a teacher!"

"Someone get the nurse!"

"Peter," Susan's voice, rather than irritate me, warmed my ear, "Peter, he's still breathing."

Thank the Lion for sensible sisters. Distantly, I felt Lucy on my other side, small hands methodically checking vital signs.

"Out of my way! Move it, you! Hey, Pevensie. Senior. Come're. Let me look at him…"

Somehow I had managed to kneel in the throng, and Edmund was pressed against my chest so tightly I realized I might have smothered him and not noticed. I loosed my hold a bit, just enough for his slack face to roll away from my collar bone, and Hamilton pressed his thumb against Edmund's jugular, tabbing the pulse with his wristwatch for a few sharp moments.

"A little slow," Hamilton confessed to me.

"He's burning up," my mouth said, "Lucy, what happened?"

"We were just dancing! He wasn't acting off at all. Just suddenly he stopped and…"

I didn't need to raise my eyes to her to know she was crying.

"I need to get him out of here. Mr. Hamilton, would you stay with my sisters while-"

Susan lurched off to the side and vomited on the floor. People sprang back, shouting in disgust.

Susan weakly wiped at her mouth, "Sorry. Sorry, I don't know what-" Her blue eyes only had time to widen before she was throwing up again.

"What the devil is going on here?" Hamilton roared, "You Pevensies are dropping like flies!"

Thomas had stepped forward, and had one hand lain across her back while she heaved again, and again, and again…until she was dry-heaving without any signs of stopping. Pasty- faced and looking scared out of her mind, Susan continued to lurch and jerk as her body rebelled against herself.

"Susan?" I asked, my voice coming out like a frightened child.

"I-" _heave_ "I can't-" _heave_, "Stop-!" that time something came up other than air. Red flecks swam in the bile. Thomas rubbed her back, but looked as though he might faint any moment, especially if Susan began throwing up more blood.

"Blond," Hamilton said gruffly, squatting next to me, "I'll take your brother to the med bay. You stay here and call an ambulance for your sister; I think she's got food poisoning. Blasted shrimp."

"But I-" I looked down at my baby brother and then to my struggling sister, torn.

"I'll stay with him until she's settled, all right? Man up, Pevensie! You've got kids to lead."

I started, and found him boring into my eyes with a look that was pure Centaur; All pride and gruffness and no-nonsense. I found my lips forming a hesitant smile.

"Yes, sir."

"Atta boy. Come're Brunette…" Edmund transferred handlers, and my stomach flipped again at the way he was so ridiculously dwarfed against the rugby coach. The red spots on his high cheekbones had begun to creep outwards, like small flames across kindling, and Hamilton, by the tightness of his face, seemed to have noticed, "All right, then. Phones are in the offices on the other side of the gym," he nodded across the room, to a pair of closed doors, "Keys are on my lanyard- here- Uh- Oh, thanks, miss," Lucy had reached forward to ease the keys from around his neck when he had struggled to balance my brother against his side, "Good. It's the big bronze one, okay? Master key to the whole school. Don't lose it."

He stood, my brother cradled in his arms, "Hurry up so I don't have to baby sit all evening, would you, Blond?"

* * *

**A/N: **

**Shorter, drier, and a whole lot later than any of my prior chapters. Sorry.**

**The Spanish bit was mostly for fun and practice, though I had been hoping to give Cain a foreign mother for a while. She was telling him, "The food is delicious, Cain!"**

**So Ed's out for the count, Peter's calling an ambulance for Susan, Susan has food poisoning, Lucy is being helpful, and Hamilton is watching over Ed for a bit while Peter is distracted…**

**What could possibly go wrong? XD**

**I'm so excited! The TWENTIETH chapter of P.E! I can't believe it's gone on for this long. Thank you, to everyone who's kept with the story. Just the knowledge that I'm writing for the enjoyment of others is a joy to me. And special thanks to Mokatster and MonkeySaru, who's PM's made me all the more eager to get this to you all.**

**--OH! BIG NEWS!--**

**Apparently- and I nearly wigged from excitement when I found out- "P.E" has been nominated for Narnia Fan Fiction Revolution's contest of "Best In-Progress" fics! *keels over from happiness* I don't care if I win! I was NOMINATED!!! :D And I know that I have 1 vote! My life is complete…**

**I love you all! Happy Thanksgiving!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

**New Vocabulary:**

**milieu- environment, surroundings**

**eschew- abstain from**

**virago- aggressive woman**

**The Root of Evil:**

**As you guys noticed, this chapter took forever and a day to release, and there was a reason for that. Originally, the brothers attempted to have a heart-to-heart chat prior to their sisters' advent. It was very messy and very emotional and… well… I'll let you see it below. Tons of brotherly fluff. O__o; Tons. **

**It doesn't really fit in with this chapter, because Edmund and Peter ended up never waiting on a hill for their sisters to come, but you can imagine that it's the way they WOULD react, should they have done so. The only elements that actually integrate with the chapter could be the FIRST and LAST scenes, of the three.**

**Read if you dare… DX**

**OoOoOoO**

**THE FOLLOWING MATERIAL DID NOT MAKE THE CUT FOR THE STORY'S PROGRESSON, AND IS FOR THE ENJOYMENT OF BROMANCE FANS ONLY. DO NOT EXPECT THE FOLLOWING EVENTS TO ACTUALLY TIE-IN TO THE OVERALL STORY!**

Susan and Lucy Pevensie had never been to Hartbee's School for Boys, for all the headmaster had told their mother about it. From reference, they knew that there were luxurious school rooms, gleaming hallways, and sixteenth century architecture for over half of the main buildings, which had been renovated to match modern expectations. 'Like a palace,' the portly man had assured them eagerly, and not one of them missed the way his every twitch seemed to beg for Edmund's agreement, 'The finest school in all of Britain.'

The pamphlets Mr. Collins had shown them truly paled in comparison.

On either side of Mother Renee, Lucy and Susan sharply inhaled, and Lucy fairly threw herself against the window of the compartment, hands pressed flat against the glass.

"Susan! Oh_, Susan_...! Look at it! Isn't it beautiful?"

"Lucy, darling, you're getting handprints all over the windows," the old Mother admonished, but was too enthralled by the sight to do much to enforce her mandate, "The boys must like studying here," she continued, "It's quite stately."

Susan, eyes caught up in the magnificent stone work and layout of the building, could barely nod in agreement, her fingers became limp on her dreary school text for embroidery, and she scooted into her sister's seat, catching her arms around Lucy so that the smaller girl sat on her knee. They both continued to drink in the sight, struck dumb by a powerful, breath-taking wave of nostalgia.

Oh! It was just like a Narnian building! Just like the Cair...!

Their fingers became entwined and Lucy looked over her shoulder with a sunny grin, leaning back to gladly kiss her sister's cheek.

"Doesn't it look just like home?" she breathed secretively, so that the Mother didn't overhear them, "Don't you think the boys are happy here?"

Susan could only squeeze her waist tighter and return the peck.

The two young Queens had started off as early as the Mother would agree to take them, boarding the train at the station around two-fifteen in the afternoon, and riding to the half-way point at Bigston (a small, shanty like town that Susan expected to fall to ruin quite soon). It was there that they boarded the four o'clock for London.

Luckily, Hartbee's was one of the train's key stops, because the girls, although brimming with excitement of finally seeing their dear and closest friends in all the lonely world, were extremely exhausted from the long day's ride. It was now nearing six o'clock. Parent Evening began at seven.

Lucy squirmed on Susan's lap.

"Mother Renee, how long do you suppose it will take us to arrive at the school?" It was a question Lucy had asked about a hundred times before, with varying answers, such as 'Oh, not longer than a quarter hour, darling,' and 'Well, with aid from God, on time, I should think. London really is the worst place for travelers...'

Mother Renee looked back up from her gold-leafed tome, her fingers snug under different intervals of snake skin pages, marking her different references, and checked the man's pocket watch she kept stowed in her habit.

"Perhaps twenty minutes at most, my dear. The traffic out there does not appear so hazardous," she clicked the pocket clock shut with a tick, and stuffed it back into her hidden pocket on the inside of her clothing, "Do you expect your brothers will be pacing for you at the gates?" Smiling benignly, she cracked back open her book and peered agedly at the small, black print.

"Well, where else would they be?" Lucy asked, surprised at the very thought. Susan could feel the tension in the arms around her neck, and she lightly kissed the crown of Lucy's head.

"Our brothers are always eager to see us," Susan continued, "It doesn't really matter how long we're separated, although, this time, I think they should be exceedingly anxious to have us in their sights."

"And they in yours?" Mother Renee asked shrewdly.

"And they in ours," the youngest Queen agreed heartily, and pulled away from her older sister to open her canvas bag in the opposing seat, "When you meet them, I think you'll understand. It's not really something we can explain."

She took out her sketchbook, peddled a small pencil from the depths of the bag, and was soon entirely absorbed in her work, long, auburn locks slipping from behind her seashell ears to veil her line of sight with waves of liquid gold.

Susan felt that she, too, should find a distraction from the fluttering birds that had somehow managed to cage themselves in her stomach, but did not really feel up to returning to her textbook (really, it was worse than a science lesson from Alberta), instead deciding to gaze silently out the window at the beautiful school atop the city of London, and wonder how her brothers were fairing in the meanwhile.

OoOoOoOoO

Peter was not fairing very well at all.

For precisely one hour and twenty-three minutes, I watched my brother pace backwards and forwards on the front lawns of our academy, hands clasped behind his back, eyes shooting with nigh deranged mentality at the large black iron gates that served as entrance to Hartbee's. Once in a while he would ask me a question regarding the advent of our sisters.

"--Do you think they missed the train?" Peter wondered, breaking me from my own thoughts.

"Not likely," I rolled from my side to my back, proud when my wince was only minimal at the movement. I stretched slowly outwards, spreading my limbs eagle and staring up at the gathering grey clouds above us, "Even if it pulled out of the station without them, I'm sure Lu would find a way to stop it."

"Like those American train robbers? For some reason, it's so easy to imagine..." he made a movement as if to begin his march anew.

"My lord, the reception isn't for another hour or so. Don't worry. They'll be here soon enough," I blinked, "Rabbit. Or maybe a squirrel hoarding his acorn? What think you?"

Peter's concerned face appeared in front of mine, face shadowed by the veiled sunlight haloing his head from behind, "Ed?"

I gestured beyond him with an impatient flap of my hand, "The clouds. That one-- What does that look like to you?" I pointed.

"Hmm..." my brother sat carefully next to me, far more worried than I was about messing up our school-issued dining outfits, and tilted his fair head back until his eyes found the shifting vapor formation I had motioned to, "Well, neither. I suppose. More like a dolphin, really."

I scowled contentedly, "Well, it's changed by now, old man. But it _did_ look like a rabbit."

Peter lay back at my side, folding his jacket sleeve beneath his neck, nudging my shoe with his own as we faced the heavens together. For a few blissful moments, I could close my eyes and imagine us anywhere. At anytime. We weren't shivering schoolboys waiting for our mourning family. We were kings, wise and powerful, loved by our people, upheld by our King, living in a breathing and magical land. Our land.

Our _home-- _My heart ached in my chest at the very thought. Would I be the first to return for good? Aslan, that it should be so...

"Peter, do you remember the clouds in Narnia?"

Peter stirred next to me, and I could feel his face turn to mine, "How could I forget?"

He waited for me to elaborate, perhaps to find some deep meaning in the question, but I found that I had no desire to. Being simple, asking simple questions for simple, straight-forward answers seemed to calm me.

I settled deeper into the crackling grass under my head, warmth rebounding from my body to the soft earth and back again, like our goose-down mattress in the Cair... Would this, I wondered dreamily, be how the earth welcomed me when I was turned cold? What kind of simple life was death? Flat on my back, no movement, no wills or desires, no hopes, no dreams, no goals, no point--

I propelled upwards, scattering dried stalks into the air with my abrupt motion. Peter started at my sudden movement, and sat up next to me.

Nostalgic! Sentimental! _**Self-pitying! **_

I jumped to my feet next (Peter confusedly followed, perhaps asked me a question, but I was beyond listening), brushed myself off like the very devils of Hell were grasping at my jacket lapels, ran a quick hand through my untamable hair, combing bits of lawn from my bangs.

Apathetic! _**Pining!**_

I shook out my arms, feeling a manic pumping start up in my heart like a will rekindled.

What was that obstructive weight sitting so obnoxiously on my lungs? What fear restricted my life? What surprise stole my breath?

_**Fool!**_

My High King gave a small cry when I stomped my foot angrily and hissed at my own jarred back. His hands were on my shoulders, asking what was wrong, what I was so worked up about, but it was _him_.

I was to die- When had I _not_ known that little fact? At what point in my life- my very _full, _very _amazing_ life, mind you- had I decided dying to protect my dear, my beloved brother and king, was not the most glorious way to exit? Hadn't I always hoped it to be like that, if I couldn't grow old with them, that is? This was my time to be the **most** alive! Not some wasting maiden who found bleak poetry in each and every bitter-sweet thing!

I was a man! A King! Just and Wise! Ruling alongside some of the most amazing people I would ever know to _exist! _Aslan have mercy on my soul, for I could be the most difficult creature when my toys were taken from me and exchanged for a task!

With a furious growl, I set my shoulders and glowered at the school gates, my mind (slowly waking up to the scream of my will) beginning to formulate some of the first ideas I had actually tried to make in months.

Lucy and Susan were soon to come. Peter was driving himself mad with the wait. I wasn't aiding him by heating up cold subjects.

Goal: Distract my brother with a happier activity than reminiscing on the old times.

Assets... I had to think a moment. Peter wasn't helping me, either. His large hands covering my shoulders shook me slightly, his face covering my vision with sky blue and worried depths.

"...Ed? Edmund? Edmund, come on, tell me what's happening! You're freaking me out... Is your feeling back? Did you just get a premonition? Ed-- Please!"

"--Peter," I said, feeling oddly sad when his panicked expression was drowned by a wave of relief. Feeling sadder when a glassy film seemed to swell over the corner of his robin egg eyes. I had scared him. For too long, I had kept him guessing. In the dark, alone, no guidance. It was my fault he was like this.

_'Oh, Peter...' _His latest fright, however minimal, seemed to have pushed him to the edge of his endurance.

I couldn't have that-- I hadn't emerged from my despondent gloom to throw Peter back in. I braced his forearms in my hands and squeezed, matching his intense evaluation of my person with a far darker one of my own, "It's going to be all right."

Enough light for him to at least see a way out of this mad funhouse? Enough light to even quell the darkness I had woven tightly around his eyes? Everything would be all right. _'Don't worry. Don't cry...'_

He blinked, and despite my encouragement, his face crumpled, arms yanking me tightly against him where I could feel each and every heart-breaking jerk of his broadening shoulders, each and every crack driving through his existence. No tell-tale breaths to calm his agony were taken in; Peter was finally letting what he felt out.

"Oh, Ed... _Edmund_..." a sob, "_Mo provis_..." His trembling lips kissed my ear, then my crown, my forehead, my clenched eye... There wasn't a witch's chance in spring for me to escape his embrace.

I hadn't meant to unlock his inner feelings, I had thought that I could quell them. Such pure emotion out of my big brother was frankly horrifying. To know that I had caused it… But I couldn't break. I wouldn't break. I couldn't show him how badly I felt. I couldn't respond. I couldn't tell him. But then...

_"I'm going to miss you,"_ whispered so softly, so desperately, so weakly into my ear, I could almost imagine I had never heard it breathed.

The feel of his hands around my shoulders, like when we were far younger, new to Narnia and just born into the newest Kings of our land, still overcome by nightmares of what could have been, weighed heavily on my mind.

Memories! What a two-edged sword they were. He would have held me lovingly where Jadis had dared to embrace me in all her malice, and I would be content while he did, a strange warmth fuzzying my frantic mind until I was lulled back to sleep by the constant waves of his oceanic affection. There were times, many times, when such love felt like it was smothering me, drowning me by it's never-ending presence, never giving me a moment's peace.

But then, after a time, when I had grown enough to realize Peter was not perfect, however much he may have seemed so to me, I learned how to hold _him. _And I would learn how it felt to Peter whenever he tucked me under his chin and crushed me close. When your brother (or your sister) is aching in such an untouchable way, dying from the inside-out, all you want is to take that ache away. You'll do anything. You'll say anything. Be anything, to take that pain from inside them and crush it beneath your heel. Spit on it while it writhes on the ground.

I would do anything for Peter. Everything I was, was for _him._

"Edmund, Edmund, _Edmund...!"_ When had my name become a plea?

My back was rigid, my arms and legs frozen in place while Peter continued to sob so terribly into my neck, I could barely stand but for my locked knees, beneath the weight of my older brother while he leaned against me.

Slowly, I brought my arms up from where they had been pinned to my sides, and carefully rested them against the back of his jacket, minding the expensive fabric, and turned my face into the side of his head, my ear laying against his rattling shoulder. Like he was fine china and I would break him if I was any harsher. Somehow, his cries managed to grow in their intensity, until he was burying his face so deeply into my collar that I could feel his eyelashes, wet and fluttering, tickle the skin of my neck.

"Shhh..." I said, tugging his shoulders a bit so that they could still in their constant hitching, "Shhh..."

Peter rocked forward and back again, with me still gathered in his arms, and his knees began to give out from under him so that we both would have sunk to the ground, had I not increased my hold on him. I braced my aching back, taking on most of his weight.

"Shhh. I have you. You're all right. It's going to be all right. Shhh, Peter. My brother..." he let out a soft cry, "My brother and my-- my dearest friend..."

Dear Aslan-- Was it--? Why was my voice breaking up like that?

"You're such a sweet person. Such a kind person. So soft-hearted. So caring," I heard my voice coo to his ear, and I listened to it in a dazed sort of confusion.

I didn't talk like this. Why was I talking like this? I wasn't upset about leaving. I was doing this for Peter. I wasn't sad. I was glad to serve. Glad to hold him up.

"I love you so much," Peter sobbed angrily into my collar, hands fisting possessively on my back, "I love you so _much!" _

"I know... I know. I'm--" swallowing? I was swallowing. There was nothing to swallow. Nothing but air, "--I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Don't go," Peter moaned brokenly, nuzzling his face against me, "_Don't go_. Please don't leave me-- I'll do anything! Don't _leave_ me!"

_'My, my, Mr. Pevensie... You'd go that far for your big brother?'_

_'You have no idea how far I've gone, sir.'_

_'Farther than life?"_

I gulped again, found it hard to breathe pressed up against Peter so tightly and leaned my head away to blink up at the overcast sky. The clouds seemed blurry. I blinked again, startled when something cold drew a line from my eye to my chin. I pressed my jaw against Peter's jacket, printing the tear against the dark backdrop of the suit. It soon faded into the fabric, and I inhaled deeply, expelling a shaky, hot gust over his shoulder.

Aslan, what a mess I'd created.

"Don't go. Don't go, Edmund," Peter whimpered, threading his fingers over and over again through my hair, like he was trying to get a firm grip of my reality before it slipped away completely, "I'll _die_ if you go. Please don't leave me alone…!"

"You won't die," I murmured gently, "I promise that you won't die."

"_I WANT TO DIE!" _he roared into my chest, and my heart, feeling the full echo of that horrendous statement, nearly ceased to beat within me then, "I've failed! I can't protect you and it's _my fault! I want to __**die!**__"_

"STOP IT!" my voice grew thready, my restraint slipping in tandem with the desperation and frustration I felt bloom in the pit of my stomach. Oh, Aslan, this whole fiasco was anyone's fault but Peter's, "You won't die! I won't _let _you die! Because if you so much as think about doing anything rash when I go, I swear, Peter before Aslan that I will come back and beat you senseless!"

I shook him, ignoring the sob that shattered my breathing, "Lucy! Susan! They're in your care now! Love them and be there for them even when I cannot. You hold this family together! Without you, we'll _all_ fall! Don't you see? You have to be strong. I know it hurts. I know it's lonely. Please. Please, Peter. Hold on. For me, please hold on."

He cried in my arms, and I sighed loudly, finally allowing my legs to collapse beneath me, settling us both on the dry, crisp earth. Peter huddled woefully against me, arms tightly binding my waist, and I pressed a kiss to the top of his head, lingering there for as long as I could, relishing the warmth my brother gave off in droves, sinking to melt the coldest heart-- Even mine.

"_Jeistha, Cornar. Jeistha, mo provis_… [Breathe, Peter. Breathe, my brother…]"

I ran a hand soothingly up and down his spine, thumbing in circular motions when my palm came across a tense and knotted muscle, methodically working the joints in the base of his neck, applying minimal weight to a few of the smaller pressure points so that they would release a calming influence on his mind. He probably knew exactly what I was doing, but he did not pull away from me, so I carried on. Eventually, he was limper than a wrung dishrag and, I expected, twice as worn. I patted the golden head that pressed against my heart.

"Lucy and Susan will probably be worried if they see me like this," Peter muttered, fingering the bowtie my suit required to 'complete the ensemble' as Thomas so properly put it. I nodded.

"You should still have a few minutes, if you need them."

A low laugh pulsed throughout my chest as Peter shook his head, "

OoOoOoOoO

"PETER! _EDMUND!" _before Mother Renee could so much as blink, her two wards had vanished from her side in a race of braids and skirts, fairly pelting up the hill to where two, tall figures stood on the lawns.

If size was anything to go by, the old Mother Superior would have guessed that the taller yet of the pair was the eldest brother. Percy? Had Lucy said? No, it was a Biblical name… Philip… A different Apostle-- Peter! His name was Peter.

As she walked slowly closer she could just make out the differences between brothers; Peter was the sort of boy that men like Hitler had strove to multiply in Germany, in a appearance at least. Blond hair, light eyes, tan skin. How he had gotten a tan in this sort of weather was beyond her. His face was splitting with a smile of nothing but gleaming white teeth, all perfectly aligned, which was odd for most boys around London. When little Lucy had reached him, he had swept her up to the sky in on easy lift. He seemed a very kind young man.

And-- Ah, that was the sick brother. The one Lucy had been so worried about seeing. He was small and slight, though only a littler shorter than Peter was, with black hair and pale skin. Dark shadows clung to his eyes, and his skin was a pasty sort of grey. He, too, was smiling, but with a closed mouth, and he hugged his older sister with delight, laughing a little when Peter (who had fitted Lucy onto his hip and was holding her like his own child) traded the sisters off. Now the little brother was kissing Lucy's cheek, and Peter was kissing Susan's.

They seemed very happy.

"Young ladies!" she called up to them, restraining a light smile of her own, "You've forgotten your luggage."

They paused in their merriment to look surprised, eyes catching sight of the baggage that they had dropped unceremoniously at her feet when they'd first caught glimpse of their family. Peter set Susan back on her feet, looking a little guilty, and Lucy was released from the younger brother's hug, so that he only allowed a thin hand to rest on her slight shoulder.

"You brought luggage? And you're only staying for a night?" Mother Renee could just make out the incredulity in the sick brother's voice.

"It's Susan's, Edmund, not mine. I only brought this," Lucy hefted her sketchbook and pencils for him to see, and he ruffled her hair with a twisted grin.

Peter was looking to Susan, "I suppose you want me to carry it for you…"

"That's what any respectable gentleman would do," she teased, and kissed his cheek again. The Mother could actually see him give way to her request. The four began to make their way back down the hill, all holding hands or touching the others in some form. How refreshing from the typically bickering children she dealt with!

"Very well. I'll-- No, Ed. You aren't helping. Not with your back."

"His back? What about your back, Edmund? What happened?" Lucy's eyes were wide with worry, and she grabbed him by the shoulder, turning him so that she could test his vertebrae with her fingers.

"Ow--! Hey! Lu! Knock that off! I'm all right! Just had a bit of a spill, is all!"

"Apparently a hard one," Lucy said, frowning when he pulled away, "You can't fool me, Edmund Randall. How'd that happen?"

"Rugby's a rough game," he allowed.

**WHAT'D I TELL YOU? ;) HAVE A GREAT REST OF YOUR WEEK.**

**-Tonzura123**


	21. Twenty One: Premeditated Enchantment

**P.E**

**Chapter Twenty-One: Premeditated Enchantment**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: Imagine if disclaimers didn't exist, and every writer on this site could say otherwise. It'd be chaos. Sheer chaos.**

"_Oh Lord, save the king! Answer us when we call!" Psalm 20:9_

I might have blacked-out.

"Susan? Susan!"

Perhaps more than once, if the anxious quality to my sister's voice was anything to go on.

"Lu?" the sound of her endearment, though softer than even I could hear, felt like someone had stabbed a knife through the base of my throat and was slowly ripping it upwards. My stomach was still turning from earlier- its contents swishing first one way, and then hesitatingly tilting towards the other. I didn't dare move or upset its uneasy balancing act. Instead, I released a breath that had been unconsciously caught in my chest, a small groan riding it out of my mouth. A groan that was, blessedly, alone in its journey up my esophagus.

"Susan..." Lucy let out a loud sigh, the air stirring against my cheek. I could just sense her face hovering above my own, but didn't open my eyes to greet hers, for fear of allowing the bright light glowing through my eyelids to drive its way past my pupils and into my throbbing skull. It felt like a very nasty hang-over, if Peter's past confession was anything to go by.

"Susan?" Lucy asked again, warm hand covering my forehead. I leaned towards it.

"M'wake." It was somewhat true, "Sick..."

"Hamilton thinks the shrimp might have been bad," my sister murmured, and I could feel the frown etching her lips.

Bad shrimp. So I'd gotten food poisoning. I'd read about food poisoning.

Then, "Hamilton?"

"The Physical Education teacher. You need to be more careful about what you eat, Susan," she teased, with that put-on motherly nag coating her words, "You should know better…" A reference to our past life. It was like our current one didn't even count.

I made a sound of agreement, though I would have normally been put-out by my sister's poking fun, but my mind was on other thoughts. Like why my heart was tugging at me in accordance with the snake coiling and writhing within my digestive track. Like why my chest was being pinched through a small needle and being pulled back out again: tight, loose, tight, loose, screaming, sighing, tensing, relaxing...

I _knew_ this feeling.

"But I had the shrimp too," she went on, and her hand had started up a steady rhythm against my hair, smoothing back stray tendrils into the waving sea I'd tied back for dancing, "Maybe only part of the batch was spoiled? It seems very odd that a rich school like this would buy any sort of bad food, though. Can you imagine the trouble _we_ would have had if something like this happened during an International agreement or peace treaty? As if we didn't have enough enemies to begin with…"

I concentrated on my chest, calmed to rational thought by my sister's babbling, her easy and light voice. I focused on that feeling. That nostalgic sense building and waning in my chest.

Where had I felt it before?

"Peter's calling for an ambulance now. In the other room," the hand petting my hair seemed to still, but only for a moment, "They might have a little trouble getting here, what with the storm coming and all. But once they do, they'll be able to help you at the hospital."

Wait. Peter wasn't with us? Wasn't with Edmund? But Edmund had _collapsed. _I peeled my eyelids open again (they had slid shut during the gentle petting of my head) and tried to crane my neck around my sister's form. My stomach jolted frettingly and I groaned aloud.

Where was Edmund?

"Ed?"

The hand didn't restart as quickly as it had before.

"Mr. Hamilton took him to the medical ward until Peter had you sorted out," I felt her breath mist against my cheek as she leaned closer to me, dropping her voice, "That boy, Thomas Macintosh, carried you in for us."

My eyelids fluttered and I squinted through the lights to see a hazy, black-suited form leaning beside the door. Our only exit.

Lucy, as usual, read my thoughts, "He doesn't seem the bad type," she confided to me, slight warmth now brightening her face, "He's very worried about all of this. And I don't think Peter would let him so much as _touch_ you, if he suspected otherwise."

Peter! My thoughts refocused. Peter and Edmund were separated from each other. From us.

From food poisoning?

A twinge of discomfort flared up in my temples, and I weakly raised a hand to pin them down, setting my lips as I clenched my eyes shut tightly, concentrating on what I knew, that odd feeling urging me on. Lucy said nothing, but rested a hand on my shoulder and gripped it a bit, encouraging me to hold on.

Edmund had collapsed. Yes. Except-

-He hadn't eaten any shrimp. I'd watched him clear his plate. And-

-Ed had collapsed after he'd run Lucy around the ball room. He'd been fine. He'd gone down. Something else-

-Fever? My mind brought up an image of twin reds spots on his cheek bones.

Facts were clicking through my mind, printed out on light tan pages, the black ink typing out in front of my eyes, scrolling across Lucy's face while she peered curiously down at me, the fluorescent lights haloing her auburn hair. I had read about food poisoning, of course, in a few of the medical texts Peter had bought in London. Upon our return from Narnia, the four of us had fallen prey to a few of the diseases rampant in Finchley. Common colds, influenza, stomach bugs and the like. That may have been the first indication of Peter's chosen career path- he had been forced to play doctor more than once to keep us healthy.

_'Symptoms four to thirty hours after consumption...'_

I had vomited up my dinner not an hour following the meal.

_'Severe vomiting, abominable pains, headaches, cold sweats, collapse...'_

But no blood. I remember the dark red blots that peppered the ghastly mess on the floor.

_'Usually during the summer months...'_

It was winter.

_'Peculiar taste...'_

Nothing had tasted odd- As a Queen I knew better than to eat anything suspicious.

"Lu..."

The feeling in my heart seemed to swell, the pinching feeling cutting off my breath.

-Pinching!

_Pulling._

"It's magic!" I gasped, and in my exhilaration of finding the source of my weakness, a small boost of epinephrine flung my hand out where it grasped a firm hold on my little sister, not bothering to lower my voice in urgency, "Lucy, I haven't been poisoned!"

"You've been bewitched," Lucy concluded in a whisper, though not looking anywhere as triumphant as I felt, "Oh, Susan. You've been _bewitched!"_

My elation popped in one, swift rupture of my realization of exactly what the use of magic to separate the four of us could mean.

"Oh, Aslan," I whispered, as I struggled to sit up, "_Edmund_."

**OoOoOoOoO**

Edmund had visited the old blast furnaces in the Narnian mines many times.

It was part of their working contract with the Black Dwarfs that resided there. They were monstrous things, the furnaces. Standing well above many of the surrounding homes and towering over even the mighty pine of the Great Western Wood. In the winter months, the furnaces kept an artificial summer alive for a good part of the woods. In the summer time, they were nearly impossible to approach without fire flaring up on one's person. During the Hundred Year Winter, it was even said that the dwarves that were told to run coal to the Mighty Furnace so often for war production, and that they kept the fires so hot, that workers were burned to a crisp in the opening of the doors. There were few Creatures or Animals that could stand that awful heat.

And a Son of Adam was certainly not one of them.

Fire. Pure and dry and agonizing- a white-hot blade that was splitting his very bones with angry, sparking waves of flames. It was as though someone, some merciless, hate-bred someone, had dipped his body into the Furnace's vat of molten iron, making the solid pain encasing his being as something inescapable. He was trapped within his own form, in his own mind with nothing but that plunge into consuming fire. It was the final straw. More than he could take. There was nothing Edmund had every wanted so badly- the want to give up the fight to this insuperable heat.

_Let it end. Let me die. Let it end, Aslan-!_

An icy pain brushed stinging burns across his cheek.

"Hush, there, Brunette. No one's gonna die," an animalistic snort, huffing cold wind onto his face, "I doubt your brother'd let you."

Brother. His brother. His Peter.

_Peter!_

"Yeah. Yeah, Peter. He's comin' for you soon. I'm just getting you set up for the doctor. Don't you-"

_Peter. He needed to know. It was starting and he still didn't know-!_

If Edmund had been anywhere remotely _near_ his right mind, he would have realized he what he was sharing aloud.

"Go back to sleep, Edmund. You're not making any sense, kid."

A jostle shook Edmund's spine and he cried out, tears soon evaporating in the arid air concomitant to the febrile atmosphere that radiated from his body.

"Sorry, kid. You're getting a little heavy. And really hot, too. We gotta cool you down."

_Peter..._

"He's coming, Edmund. I swear to you that he's coming."

..._I'm so sorry. Peter, I'm so..._

Another jostle, but this time there was no pained voice or escaping tear. There was no strength to. _Aslan_, this _feeling_. This _burning, aching __**feeling**_…

It was too much.

_Too much. Too fast. Peter, I'm sorry. I thought I could handle it. I thought I could save you._

"None of that, Brunette. You hold on 'til we can fix you up, all right? God, you Pevensies are so-"

The fire was suddenly clearing out from his mind, leaving his bones to ache as charred limbs. Edmund had grown acquainted with Death in his years as the Just King. It would be difficult for him to not recognize that old friend now. He needed more time, if only to confess the truth to Peter. If only to warn them of things to come, because of him. If only to find a way to keep them safe a while longer.

_Protect them._

"The only one that needs protection is the idiot that fed you two bad shrimp. Blond's gonna rip them apart, mark my words."

The burning darkness was filling with a gentle light.

_Aslan, forgive me._

A wave, cool, refreshing, consuming, enveloped his mind and body. From the Furnace into the beautiful depths of the Eastern Seas. Weightless. Worriless. Witless.

Waned.

"What the Devil is an 'aslan?' Work with me here, Edmund. I can't do much good if you're off on some cloud somewhere. You hear me? Hey!"

But Edmund Randall Pevensie had stilled in the large man's arms.

OoOoOoOoO

Patrick Laney Hamilton, son of a notorious World War I Lieutenant from a long line of war officials, had been immersed in all things battle, tactic, survival, and control. At age five, he knew three ways to kill a man with the bayonet end of a rifle. At age twelve, he knew what to do when a comrade was injured in battle. And for all of his life, his father and grandfather had regaled to him what it felt like to kill, what it felt like to feel the life pour out of your buddy's body while you watched him pass on. He'd seen dead men. He'd seen dead women.

He refused to believe he was seeing his first dead child.

"Pevensie? Pevensie!" Hamilton shook his precious package again, fears strangling his heart when the young boy remained as slack-faced as before, "_Edmund_!"

Breathing with extra care, and lowering the form of the youngest Pevensie male to the cold, marble floor, Hamilton laid Edmund out flat, and tucked his dress jacket beneath his head, especially minding the old injury of the boy's spine from being bent too much. It was disturbingly easy to move his loose arms and legs around. Nothing at all like the restless movements that Edmund had shown before, when he was still out cold from his rugby pile-up.

He fumbled for the thin, blue-veined wrist that flopped uselessly next to him, feeling slightly better with the idea of seeing what he was looking for-

-But still not finding.

"Okay," Hamilton puffed anxiously, "Okay..." He reached forward and placed his fore and middle fingers into the pale crook of Edmund's neck, digging in slightly as he, with increasing fear, attempted to find his pulsing jugular.

All was still.

"Oh no, you brat. You don't get to duck out like this. Not like this. Come on," sucking deep gulps of air between trembling lips, Hamilton pushed two fingers into the boy's neck determinedly, and laid one ear above Edmund's airway, struggling to contain his heavy breathing in order to listen for something (anything, really) to whisper out of the boy's mouth, "_Come on_-"

Footsteps clicked down the hallway, fast and barely controlled. They went unheeded. A terrible, lifeless silence had swallowed them whole.

"No!" Hamilton whispered, not believing, rocking back from the prone form on the glistening ground, "No- What..." A terrible thought struck him violently, leaving him gasping for air, "Oh, God, what am I going to tell your brother?"

"Problem, Hamilton?"

The clicking had turned to faint hiss of black fabric robes behind Hamilton's bowed head, and the rugby coach found that he didn't need to turn to envision the look of lofty indifference on Headmaster Collin's face.

"It's Pevensie. He's- Well, he _can't_ be- What do we- Oh, _God!"_ he made as if to turn away from the boy, his glasses catching faint sources of light within the dark hall as he twisted his head around angrily,_ "_Where's that ---- ambulance?!_"_

"Calm yourself," Collins soothed, his voice was smoother than liquid glass and twice as cold, while patting the bald crown of the shaking man's head, "Your conduct is grossly indecorous. After all, this is exactly the way he wanted it."

Hamilton rested a trembling hand onto Edmund's chilled cheek, turning his head on the jacket so that his closed eyes were facing the two men hovering above him. He looked like he was only sleeping.

"How can you say that?" Hamilton asked, his voice low, "He was so young. He had so many years ahead of him, and he was going to_ do _something with those years and... Now...Oh, God, what is his brother going to do? If I know him… This is going to _ruin_ them!"

"Hmm," hummed Collins, unimpressed, he shuffled about his deep pockets, "Not really so young, it would seem. Surprise, surprise. It appears that young Mr. Pevensie was hiding more than one secret from us…" His head cocked to the side, a grotesque doll's head with doughy cheeks and glazed crystal over his hollow eyes, "And as for his potential-" he nudged one black pant leg with his shoe, "I can't say that I ever really expected him to amount to more than a doormat."

Hamilton stood abruptly, whirling so that he had a considerable fistful of Collin's front robes before the Headmaster could so much as blink. In the next second, he had slammed the other man against the hard stone wall behind them. Outside, the storm had blocked the full moon and was dragging its lumpy weight over delicate stars. Low moaning echoed from the trees while freezing winds whipped mercilessly against them.

"You _be careful_ what you say about him, you two-legged _pig_! He was a far better man than you could _ever _be, and I hope to _God_ that before he's been buried like a proper Christian your pompous --- has been booted to a park bench and your grubby little hands are gripping a tin cup!"

"They'll bury you first," Collins said acidically, and brought the dagger up from his pocket to slam it into Hamilton's aching heart.

He didn't stop until the blade was buried to its bloody hilt.

OoOoOoOoO

"_Hurry up so I don't have to baby sit all evening, would you, Blond?"_

Peter doubted very much that the man knew how quickly the High King could move where his siblings were concerned.

With Susan secured on the small cot in Hamilton's office, and with the Valiant Queen posted as sentry to her safety, a small, razor bladed knife tucked into the inside edge of her jacket cuff, Peter felt slightly less guilty for leaving the room to make the phone call for the ambulance.

Still, he had pulled Thomas aside while Lucy was supporting her sister about the waist, and, desperate for a substitute of Edmund's normal position, asked him to watch over the both of them, and alert him immediately if anything worse transpired.

Thomas had been all too eager to help.

Now, with one hand impatiently tapping the edge of the rotary phone hanging on the wall inside the second of three private offices, and the other crushing the earpiece against his quickly reddening ear, he gave his explanation to hospital for why he, a minor, was asking for medical assistance at nearly ten o'clock in the evening, when there were plenty of able adults to do so.

In polite, but, frankly, terse words, Peter gave the secretary on the other end of the line a brief recap of events, asking her to please hurry and do her job so that his sibling's conditions didn't worsen, or anyone else fall sick.

The hospital secretary had told him the ambulance was dispatched and curtly wished him a good day before she abruptly hung up on him.

'_Well, then…'_

Chuckling, Peter put the piece on the rung and bent his head so that the crick in his neck would pop back into place, gathered his jacket and tie from the floor beside him, and walked back into the room with his younger sisters-

-Only to attacked upon reentry.

"Peter!" Lucy cried, jumping at him before his second foot could clear the doorway, "Peter, you have to go after Edmund!"

And his heart choked.

"Peter, you have to listen to me," Susan was saying now, dragging herself upright, one hand pressed gingerly against her waist, "It's magic; It's not food poisoning. There's something tugging at me- I can feel it!"

"I don't know what they're talking about, mate," Thomas was muttering, almost nervously, "One minute, they're fine. The next? They're talking nonsense about magic and witches and all other weird hoogadoo."

Small hands gripped his own and tugged sharply downwards, magnetizing his eyes to meet the cerulean gaze of his littlest sister.

"Peter, you have to believe us! We think they're after Edmund! Something's wrong! You have to find him before-"

"Nothing's wrong!" Thomas was trying to be soothing, reaching forward, around Peter, to detach Lucy's hold on him, "I'm sure your brother is just fine. Here, sit down and-"

"I will _not_ sit down, young man!" Lucy barked, wrenching her arm away from the Scotsman in a fiery burst of anger, "Don't you dare tell me what's real and what's not! _This danger is __**very**__ real_. My brother may be _dying!_ So you do us _all_ a favour and _sit down_ before you get hurt!"

Thomas sat hard on the pallet beside Susan, his young face working to overcome utter confusion, "Young man?"

It was like being placed in the middle of the white rapids of the Great River. No matter where he turned, he was pummeled by another new, truth that knocked the wind out of his lungs and threatened to completely submerge him. He didn't want to think about what all of this could mean. Because, if he did- Well, he'd just killed his own brother, hadn't he? He'd promised him. He'd _sworn_. Given his oath to the trusting wonder that was his one and only _brother_- And now…

A trembling energy was vibrating through his body, leaving his fingertips twitching in unexplainable power. It craved an outlet.

Lucy was focused on her brother once more, "Peter? Peter, you have to go. I'll stay with Susan. You can go. Just make sure- Stay with Edmund until all of this is sorted out, okay? It's just this _feeling_- I _know_ this feeling…"

He had to find him. He just had to find him.

"Magic," Susan said again, she looked anxious enough to start vomiting again, and the green tinge around her eyes did nothing to discourage the thought, "It's _dark_ magic. Sort of cold and pinching. We have to hurry before-"

"-_OUT OF THE WAY!"_ someone bellowed outside the doors, and Peter found himself unexpectedly moving, years of war time experience influencing him as he fluidly slipped to the door and cracked it just enough (and just in time) to see Cain Jacobs, of all people, barreling across the gym floor. The wheezing boy was pushing straggling guests out of the way while he made a harsh beeline for the phones. Behind Peter, Thomas had poked his head out of the office to see what his best friend was yelling about.

"Cain? What are you-" the Scotsman blanched.

Cain's skin was sprinkled with a fine layer of bloody freckles.

Peter stepped in front of him, hand reaching out automatically to snag him by the upper arm in passing. Cain jerked on the end of Peter's grip as if he'd been clothes-lined, his eyes were wide, blood shot, and absolutely panicked.

"Let me go! I have to call for help! Hamilton-! He's-"

Peter looked at the blood staining Jacob's frantically scrambling hands, "Dead."

Thomas groaned, sounding highly nauseated by the entire ordeal. That one word seemed to lock Cain up on the spot, and he fearfully looked up to meet Peter's stare. Whatever he saw, he swallowed heavily and weakly tried to pull away again.

"Dead? Alive? I dunno. He was just bleeding everywhere and I- I-"

"Panicked," Peter supplied again, roughly releasing the boy from his hold, "Typical."

"What? I- _What's wrong with you_?" Cain shouted, "I just told you I think someone's _dead_ and you're perfectly okay with that?! What kind of-?"

Peter picked Cain up by his lapels and slammed him against the wall beside the phones.

"Oi!" Thomas yelped, face green, "Is that really necessary?"

"Show me."

"He's outside the gym, you freak!" Cain struggled, feet scraping against the wall in search of ground, "I dragged him all the way over here!"

"Peter!" Lucy's voice joined the fray, and filtered smoothly through his ears, "What on earth are you doing?"

"Lucy," Peter said, without looking to her to meet her frightened eyes, "Call the hospital again and tell them there's an injured teacher. Cain is going to show me exactly where he found him. Aren't you?"

"Why would I-"

Peter pulled him forward until they were practically touching noses.

"Listen to me, you playground ne'er-do-well," Peter murmured softly, "My brother is in this school somewhere, and he needs me. When he needs me, I help him. Now tell me: Do you really want to be the only thing standing in my way when I have to tear this place apart looking for him?"

"Peter," Lucy warned, toned low, "Remember Aslan. You're losing control. We don't know if Edmund is hurt yet. Save your strength; this boy isn't of any use to you if you knock him out first thing."

The High King stilled, more internally than they could see in his body. The difference was astounding; the moment his mind was properly situated, something seemed to click behind the frozen, indifferent gaze of ice that he had been pinning against the other boy. Whatever it was, that manic turmoil barely checked, it seemed to vanish, or at least be pushed down, and the robin's egg blue softened. The stormy grey calmed. He took a deep, slow breath, and released it carefully, loosing his iron grip from Cain's collar before stepping back. He seemed dazed.

"It's still not finished," Peter said, as though even he didn't realize what his words meant. Lucy reached out to him and squeezed his warm palm, wrapping her other arm around his middle, as high as she could reach.

"Just remember Aslan. And take this," from her sleeve, she extracted a gleaming silver blade that made Cain and Thomas stare at the Pevensie pair, dumbfounded.

"How'd that get there?" Thomas wondered, watching as Peter gave a small, grim smile and plucked the knife from her fingers, wrapping it in his fist with an air that was far too practiced.

"Thanks, Lu," Peter kissed the top of her head, "Pray for fast flight."

"And a faster fight," the young Queen replied, kissing the empty palm she still cradled, "Aslan be with you, my King."

"And you, my Queen," he blessed her forehead once more and turned away, "Thomas, you stay here with the girls. Lock yourselves in the office and don't come out for anyone but the paramedics. Come on, you."

Grabbing Cain by the scruff of his neck, and slipping the blade into a free belt loop, Peter made for the gym exit, his footsteps echoing off the high ceiling in perfect sync with the unearthly judder of his heart within his chest.

"Peter, wait!"

Susan stood weakly against the doorframe, lanyard hanging from her limp fingers, "The master keys Hamilton gave us- You may need them," with a mighty effort, she underhanded the jangling set across the minute distance and into her older brother's poised hand. Clenching them as though they were his last tie to earth, he spread out the loop and slipped it over his head.

"Thanks," his throat was tight, "Now rest. I'll bring Edmund back soon."

"I know you will," she smiled bravely, tears glistening while Lucy wrapped a strong arm around her waist and eased her off the entryway, carefully leading her back to the cot to lie down. Thomas gulped, and nodded to Peter, then shot a scrutinizing shot at his best friend, who immediately looked away. Thomas nodded again and backed into the office. Peter didn't start moving again until he heard the tell-tale _click_ of the lock.

'_Aslan, watch over my brother. Protect him even when I cannot.'_

His only answer was a rumble of thunder from the storm descending on the school campus.

**A/N:**

**In the next chapter, we learn Collin's history. And his**_** true**_** purpose for using Edmund. If you haven't read the books, you may want to brush up on them. This plot is about to pull a corkscrew. ;D**

**I'm going to work hard to get the next chapter out on a reasonable date. You all are so wonderful about telling me what you thought about the story, and how much so many of you look forward to the next one. Please don't think that I'm giving up on this story- I have the last ten chapters planned out. There will be brotherly love, plot twists, action, magic, and (as always) a lesson. Hope you all have a great week!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

**New Vocabulary:**

**concomitant- **_accompanying_

**indecorous- **_improper_

**insuperable**- _unable to be overcome_

**judder- **_to shake noisily or violently_


	22. Twenty Two: Pyschosis Emancipated

**P.E**

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Psychosis Emancipated**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: In an all-out brawl to decide ownership, which author on this site do you think would come out on top? The fight would go on forever...**

* * *

"_If anyone destroys God's temple, God will destroy him; for God's temple is sacred, and you are that temple," I Corinthians 3:17_

* * *

There is a strange sort of beauty in the Dark Magic of Narnia.

_She_ had told me that it was a power, a protection that stemmed from anger, a form of fire, and hate, a solid glacier. Anger dissipated any argument or force against it. Then there was Hate, she had told me, which could not be turned. No one could hinder the crushing weight or push back against it without its constant, freezing shoulder numbing the life from their fingers, the spark that kept thin flesh from rotting and warping back to its truest form: dust.

Hate and Anger; the two most overwhelming emotions that a magician could use. She had shown me that I had plenty of both.

Hate was what I had bred in my heart for this boy- the boy who now lies so still in front of me- and I had nurtured it and given it strength and depth and durability until I had dissolved enough into his very being to call on it later.

It was an old spell; a spell that required blood. Most of Her spells did.

So I cursed his blood, festered a contagion of woe and despair and destruction within his body, brewed a self-hatred in his veins, and watched it take hold, knowing I would need the blood of royalty to complete The Spell. It had been working so well… Everyday his courage flickered. Everyday his will was chaffed. Everyday my purpose for him was nearing.

_And then he broke his promise._

"Perhaps too like me, then," I told the body on my leather sofa, while my back was turned to work on mixing some brandy into a small glass- Nerves would not do now, after all, "Promises and deceit. Oaths and second thoughts. Cheers, my star pupil," I toasted his breathless chest and accepted a proper swig down my throat. Liquid-fire.

"You see now, what your love does to you? You throw away your life to save your brother's, and don't even bother to tell him what you'd done. He may die from a bullet, yet, and it'd still be your fault."

It was the very thought I'd given him to dream about. But when Hate hadn't been enough, I'd been forced to unleash the second spell.

I'd watched as my Anger struck him hard across the dance hall, so hot it must have chilled his bones, and the fiery reddening of his face showing that the spell was strong enough to physically manifest itself. The Hate already instilled had teemed with my righteous rage, and the only thing preventing me from finishing my sacred task was brought to his knees before me.

That the eldest girl had been sensitive enough to catch some of the backlash had been pure luck- Their attentions had been divided, and I was satisfied enough that I wouldn't need to kill them all to take their brother. Less uproar. Less trouble. Hamilton needn't have died, but to push my graces like that...

He'd deserved exactly what I'd given him, meddling sod.

The courtyard clock rung out the hour- Two o'clock. In one hour, my magic would reach its pinnacle, and I would escape this world once and for all.

_CLANG...! CLANG...!_

I was leaving red fingerprints around the base of the cup, ones that matched the stains on the door frame, the door handle, the desk, and much of the clothing of mine and my student's. I'd have to swab that off at some point. No matter.

"What I_ want _to know is how you managed to overcome my work," I paused to murmur over the rim of my glass, drinking in the euphoric view of his body, which would soon be completely _mine_, "Especially with That in your blood. How could you have even _considered_ breaking our Deal?"

I had never been capable of fully appreciating his muteness until now. The dead silence was positively golden. It brought a smirk of victory to my lips.

"Well, never mind, you need not answer that. She'd told me that I could expect her aid. It only makes sense that she'd find a way."

A delighted laugh came suddenly and harshly from my mouth, as though not my own. Perhaps it wasn't.

"The Empress truly loves and dotes on me! To mark you as Hers so that I might harvest your body at the right time- How much power I shall have! Royal, magic-fused blood...my blood. I wonder...?"

I bent over his body curiously, feeling the magic curl through him, around him, coiling tighter than a python around his heart. There! I reached out with shaking fingers to cautiously peel up the corner of his shirt, stopping when a silvery gleam hit my eye.

"There-!" I could not breathe for ecstasy, Her word kept was life in my fluttering chest, "There is where She pierced your side," a familiar coolness rose from the spot, unable to be sensed but for one trained in Magic, "And there is Her sweet poison..."

Another laugh came, but this was one was definitely my own- the liquor was heating my gut, and the slight nagging about possible intrusions was brushed off the front plane of my mind.

After all, what could his precious older brother possibly do to _me? _The most loyal servant and heir to Her Imperial Empress?

"Soon, my child," I whispered, and carefully set down the glass on a side table, kneeling next to his side to brush the light, feathery bangs out of his shut eyes. He didn't stir at my ministrations, so I let my hand rest on his forehead, and leaned over him, my lips practically brushing his left ear.

"It is time for you to fulfill your purpose. So let us begin, _mo syr _[my king]..."

* * *

**A/N:**

**It's the shortest and the creepiest chapter I've ever written. ^__^ Hope it gave you all a chill or two! And if anyone has any questions on the technicality of the spells Collins is talking about, you can either review, PM, or wait for further explanation in upcoming chapters.**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

**New Vocabulary:**

**psychosis- severe mental disorder involving a person's whole personality**

**emancipated- freed from restraint**


	23. Twenty Three: Physical Evidence

**P.E**

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Physical Evidence**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: Writing disclaimers on a fan site is like disowning the brain children you never had: pointlessly heartbreaking...**

* * *

"_May their path be dark and slippery, with the angel of the Lord pursuing them," Psalm 35:6_

* * *

_...Once upon a time, there was a man who was less than a man, and a boy who was more than a boy._

_Now, upon a chance meeting for the boy, and by elegant design for the man, the two met, and found that each opposing party held something the other wanted very badly._

_The boy, who was so much more than a mere boy, wanted a place to hide his brother from certain death._

_The man, who was far, far less than an ordinary man, secretly wanted the boy._

_So, the two struck a Deal._

_The man would hide the brother of the boy at his school, allowing him to remain, and then to earn his way into a prestigious University._

_The boy would promote the man's school, and give them a reputation for aiding the war-torn children of the lower classes in earning an elite education._

_It was the perfect Deal, giving them both their most desperate wish._

_The boy, who was truly a King, spared his only brother the fate of fighting in an Unfamiliar and Industrious War._

_The man, who was truly a Magician, had captured the King marked by a Witch, just as She had promised him She would._

_But the King, after soon realizing he had broken from his faith by trusting the scheming Man over his Highest King, repented, and tried to break from their Deal._

_The Magician became enraged, for secretly, he had been slowly bewitching the young King's mind so that he would fully fall away from his Faith, and therefore become easier to manipulate with his magic. _

_During their argument, the Magician threatened that he would give up the King's brother to the War, but the King refused to relent, and just as he was about to confess to his family the awful mistake he had made, the Magician struck him down with a mighty and terrible curse._

_With his Hatred of the King, and his Anger at the King's betrayal, the Magician placed him into the soft embrace of Death._

_Alas! Blinded by his two, most powerful assets, the evil Magician forgot Death's Master..._

_...And that the King was His son..._

**OoOoOoOoO**

The sight of Hamilton strewn against the wall of the gym, with a thick, streaking smear of red trailing off down the long hallway, coupled with the noisome scent of crusting blood, caused Cain's warden to screech to a stop. It had been rather obvious, even for Cain, that Pevensie had been trying to mentally ready himself for the rather ghastly sight. But he supposed even miraculous golden boys like Peter Pevensie could be afraid of something as nightmarish as death.

"I didn't have anything to help him with," Cain told him, as the taller boy knelt dazedly down in front of the corpse, eyes flickering without much design over the stab wound, the bloody right hand, the stained floor, and the wound again. It was like he was trying to piece together the scene in his mind.

"You know," said Cain, feeling something oddly tight twisting in circles within his chest. The ugly sensation brought him an uncomfortable level of _déjà vu _from his fight with Thomas, on the night of Edmund's injury, "You know, he really was a good sort of person." Blast, but this was embarrassing. What were people supposed to say about the dead, anyway? "He didn't deserve to die this way- or any other way, that is..."

"_He's not dead."_

It was the first thing Pevensie had said since Cain had shown him where he'd placed the body. The blond had a hand pressed deeply into the flesh of the gym teacher's neck, and his eyes, colourless in the scant light of the moon-lit clouds gathering outside the corridor windows, had a faraway look, like he was concentrating so deeply, so completely, that his mind and all of his attentions were focused on that singular task.

Then his words actually clicked.

"He isn't?" A helium balloon was swelling inside of Jacobs, dizzying his head, and rocking him on his feet as he struggled to stay settled on the ground.

"No. Just weak. The knife missed his heart- too far to the right side of his chest, you see? The person who stabbed him is left-handed, which narrows it down considerably." There was a quick, almost bored, manner to Pevensie's answers, similar to how he had diagnosed his little brother after Cain had tripped him on the pitch. Practiced. Unnervingly familiar.

"How'd you know that?" he asked, because somehow he didn't think the medical courses at Hartbee's went into forensics.

"The angle. It was probably a last-minute decision, too. A smart person would have thought to have switched hands," Pevensie turned to look up at Cain, who stood immediately over him, face a paled green, "Give me your waist coat."

Jacobs pulled a face, immediately recognizing what Pevensie intended to use it for.

"Why _mine?"_

Ice blue lightning, a thousand times colder, snapped up at him, wild, angry, deadly. The helium balloon was violently ruptured and Cain shucked the waistcoat meekly, handing it to the other young man.

Within seconds, the waistcoat was shredded by the gleaming knife that the little girl- Pevensie's sister- had taken from her sleeve to give him. There was no question in his movements. More practiced than the most complex legerdemain- a fact that both set Cain on edge and made him feel inexplicably safe. A larger chunk was used as a pad to minimize further loss of blood, a few strips were knotted and tied and fashioned into a strap to bind the pad down.

"There you are, my good friend," he heard Pevensie say softly, "You have my eternal thanks for your service to my family. But," here his face twisted gruesomely with guilt and helplessness, "I must find my brother. You understand, don't you?"

Hamilton's eyes flicked about beneath their lids- the first real sign of life that Cain had seen. It seemed a good sign. Pevensie apparently agreed; His eyes welled up and he shut them, kissing the teacher's brow with such respect, that Cain couldn't even make light of it to himself.

"_Thank you."_

No, there was nothing here to make fun of. Nothing about this was amusing in the least.

"Do you want me to go get your sisters to watch him?"

"We have to find Edmund," an unchanging 'no', if Cain ever heard one, "And-" Pevensie's head cocked to the side, eyes seeing something Cain couldn't, "-Someone good is coming this way _very_ soon."

Cain was startled at the idea of what "someone good" would find when they reached him; two bloody boys, one half-dead teacher, and a knife in Pevensie's hands. He quickly looked back and forth down the halls, but saw no one and heard nothing.

"How do you-?"

"Let's go." Pevensie had hold of his hand and was pulling him along the reddened tile, feet soundless while Cain stumbled to keep us with the long, hurried strides.

A fearful exclamation echoed from behind them.

"There she is!" Pevensie exclaimed, and picked up speed.

"What-?"

They were running full-out, faster than Cain had ever run in his life, which was saying a lot. He'd been graced with a runner's physique, but this was insane. He _should_ have been tired and breathless from this type of exertion. It was nearly an inhuman pace.

Yet, somehow, a sort of energy was radiating from Pevensie's grip, where it was cutting off the circulation of his arm. Energy and fear. Energy and fear and something that Cain could not recognize, because he had never truly felt it.

"There! There!" The quagmire of blood filling the slip of tile ahead marked where Hamilton had fallen, and they came to a halt.

"Definitely left-handed," Pevensie said aloud, not even slightly winded. He let go of Cain and began to circle around the edges of the pool, deep in thought, "They struck deep, to have this much blood. Their left-hand is definitely dominant."

"Wait," Cain said at length, a thought hitting him, "I thought that no schools permitted left-handedness?"

"That's because they _don't_ allow it," Pevensie answered, still hedging the border of blood to inspect every possible angle, "The left hand is generally thought to be evil or clumsy in most cultures. It's superstitious, but people actually believe writing with the left hand is a sign of mental retardation. So any kids that start out by writing with a left hand are 'corrected' to write with their right instead."

He looked up in time to catch Cain's wondering expression.

"Susan was left-handed," he explained shortly.

"Oh," Cain struggled to find words, "So the person who attacked Hamilton and your brother wasn't taught in the normal way, then?"

"Maybe." But there was no real belief behind the word. Instead, a thundercloud crushed Pevensie's forehead down over his eyes, the faraway look returning.

"What is it?"

"The left-hand was prized... where I grew up..."

"In Finchley?"

"No," Pevensie's face contorted, and something about the light in his eyes made Cain's heart beat panic," No, not in Finchley. And if Susan's bewitched..."

"What?"

"It's him," Pevensie said ominously, like a death toll, "It's HIM! _The snake has been here all along!"_ He wildly ran a hand through his hair, turning away, then back, eyes searching, straining, for something, "'The fox will notice a danger from...the _den_...the lion cub will not...and the kit will try- he'll try-!'" Pevensie sucked in a terrified gulp of air, and then his face went into a delicate calm, eyes closed, hands like blinders on the side of his face. Then slowly, deliberately, Pevensie began again with a clearer voice;

"...The fox will notice a danger from the den that the tired lion cub does not- and will try to fend it off for him...Surrounded. Crushed. Pierced. Poisoned. Kil-" the calm masking Pevensie's face shuddered for one terrible moment, and then set in again, with more determination, "By an enormous snake that commands the legions... Commands. _Commands!"_

Pevensie seemed quite caught up on that word.

"Commands. From the den. From where the cub and kit were from. The kit will see what the cub does not. The kit will see _whom_ the cub does not. Commands. Surrounded unknowingly. Crushed subsequently. Pierced when he fights. Poisoned. All without the cub-"

Another tremor contorted the placid serenity, and Cain feared that he'd lost his mind completely. That, and a terrible realization filled him;

He _did_ know someone left-handed- he'd been helping them all along.

"Pevensie."

The ranting ceased for a moment, though the blinders stayed in place, and those cold blue eyes looked fathomlessly back at him. Cain took a second to swallow, feeling that, if someone hadn't died before, they certainly were going to now.

"I think I know who we're looking for."

"Yeah," Pevensie growled hatefully, "I think I do, too."

**OoOoOoOoO**

There was a shriek from outside the gym, and Thomas jerked on my right, hand going out in front of him, the other behind him, like he was going to fend it off and push Susan (who was lightly dozing behind us) back against the wall.

"Whawuzat?!"

"Hush," I said, slipping down from the cot to press one ear to the door. From behind me, I could hear the tell-tale rustle of sheets, signaling Thomas' adjustment to shield my older sister. Peter had trained him well.

A raised voice was calling for help outside. Peter had given us a direct order, yet it sounded so sincere...

"Lucy, don't." Susan had stirred at last, and, turning her clammy face towards her right side, had apparently read the look on my face.

"I don't think it's the magician that's doing _all_ of this, Susan," I told her, concern increasing when the person sounded like they were sobbing, "I think someone really needs our help."

"Magician. Magic. _Fantasy_," Thomas muttered from the bedside, "This is the craziest dream I've ever had..."

"Have you forgotten the Hags?" Susan hissed fearfully, her normally fluid voice catching on her agitated throat like grinding rocks, "They could sound like anything they wanted to! Even our _brothers_. Who knows what this magic-user can do?"

"Oh...So, you aren't married, then?" Thomas said suddenly, brightly," I thought you were only pretending to be siblings there, for a second."

Beyond the door, the cries for help had intensified, pulling at each string of my heart. But Susan, her ears probably plugged by this magic illness, could just barely hear that ludicrous comment that Thomas Macintosh had spewed from his smiling mouth.

"...Thomas? You've been very helpful, but I'm going to have to ask you to not speak for a while."

"Susan," I broke in again, feeling that mysterious tug to _do something_, without even knowing the true reason I felt compelled to do it. I had come to recognize the feeling as Aslan working at my heart to act- to abet, "I don't think that's the magician. I think they actually need our help!"

"No, Lucy- Don't go out there," she struggled to sit up, only able to do so when Thomas gently hefted her to lean against his side, "I forbid it! Remember, Peter said-"

"-I'll be right back," I soothed her, showing her the extra knife I had kept from Peter, due to its more lady-like grip, "Don't worry, Aslan will be with-"

"-Oh-! _Blast Aslan!" _Susan shouted, and Thomas jumped again, "I'm not talking about some giant lion springing from nowhere to save the day! I'm talking realistically about you leaving this room against Peter's orders and getting yourself killed! _Killed _Lucy!" She inhaled deeply, face flushed by more than mere fever, and tore into me a second time; "Just like Edmund's going to be because of Him! He's the one who sent us back here without help! Edmund's been in danger all year! And where was He then? Sending us silly dreams to interpret? How can you think He's with us when _all of this is happening to us?!"_

"You don't mean that," I told her, because what else could I say? "_You can't believe that_."

"Can't I?" she shot back angrily, still clinging to Thomas' nervous shoulder just to match my boring gaze, "What proof do I have to believe otherwise?"

"Narnia!' I cried, chest aching with a bizarre sense of loss, "Fifteen _years _of Narnia and Cair Paravel! Battles with Giants from the North and Calormenes to the South! Oreius and Rabadash and Reepicheep and _Caspian! _What more proof do you _need, Susan?!"_

"But where's the proof that any of that actually happened?" Susan's eyes were filled. They overflowed with helpless despair, "My little brother might already be dead! If Aslan really loved him- loved _us_- how could He let that happen? _How could He do this to us?"_

She cut off as sharply as she had begun, and while Thomas patted her back and she let him, a detached sort of silence filled the space between us. Cold, empty, heavy...

For the first time in my life, I felt that I didn't know my beloved sister at all; My head seemed to pound, and my eyes pricked with hot tears. One of my brothers was lost to us. My other brother was slowly and surely losing his mind. My one and only sister was losing her faith.

...And was I to be the sister who lost her best friend atop all else?

I remember that I was so upset with her, to know that she could bear to speak those horrible, forsaken words at all. After everything! And to _me-!_

My sister, my intelligent, gentle sister, was damning Aslan right in front of me, and I knew that I could not present any "logical" reasons to change her mind. My sister had always needed proof. Physical evidence. I suppose I never thought of what would happen when she no longer had that. After all, Edmund was fairly logical, and he never seemed to have a need to test everything Aslan set before him.

Then why _was_ all of this happening to him?

In a burst of something curiously like remorse, I undid the lock and slipped out the door.

"Lucy! No-! Don't go!"

I ignored her as I closed the door with a forceful _click_ and padded across the emptied gym with bare feet. The punch tables were pushed against the walls, crystal glasses catching the light from the high chandelier. The cleared dance floor still had a distinct puddle to one corner- the corner where Edmund had fallen into my arms in a dead faint and Susan had gotten sick. It had yet to be cleaned up. The only change was across the room, where the main doors (which had been thrown open from Jacob's explosive entrance) were firmly sealed. Beyond was a womanly voice, no longer asking for help, but worriedly talking to someone in low tones. I neared, and the voice grew more distinct.

"It's all right, sir. You're going to be fine. I can see someone's already seen to that. God is watching over us, you poor man..."

"...Mother Renee?" I asked through the door, cautiously. In my hand, my fingers were readying my hold on the blade, in case the figure on the other side was anyone but her, "Is that you?"

"Lucy?" Her relief nearly floored me in its ferventness, "Oh! Thank God! Don't look child, go call for an ambulance. A man has been stabbed!"

"I know," I agreed sadly, "But he's dead."

"No! No, my child! This man is still alive! His wound is dressed and he's breathing!"

"What?" I was torn between suspecting foul play and allowing the waves of relief to finally submerge me in light-headed ease. Had Jacobs been wrong? Had Peter checked the body? I wanted to believe her so badly, but a voice that sounded suspiciously like my slyer brother warned me to not take every word spoken for fact. There was one way to tell for sure...

"How is the wound dressed, ma'am?"

"Expertly. Someone ripped up their clothes to make a bandage, it seems, and braided the rest to hold it in place around the shoulder and waist."

Narnian style. Peter's style. Peter would not have bandaged a dead man. She spoke the truth.

I tucked away my knife and pulled the bolt on the door, swinging it carefully open to verify her claim- Peter had done an expert job in wrapping the wound. I suppose that came from practice.

"No! No, my dear, go back! I don't want you to have to see-" Mother Renee, still in her habit, tried to block my view by fanning out her arms and spreading the fabric of her wide sleeves. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her hair peaking out in slightly wild straggles. Blood stained the palms of her hands, where she had tried to make sure Hamilton's injury was taken care of. With as gentle a smile as I could give her, I knelt beside her and touched her arm.

"It's not as bad as it looks, ma'am. The blade missed the heart. Likely his saving grace."

"Why- yes..." for a moment, she was too stunned to say or do much else, and I was allowed to check Peter's handiwork critically, ripping off the edge of my long skirt to replace the bloodied pad with a fresher one while she looked dazedly on.

"This is the second time in my life I've seen this kind of injury," she whispered as I worked, "The first time was my brother-in-law. Sarah's husband."

The Mother blinked her large, blue eyes at the coach, then turned them at me, sadly, "Do you remember, I think I told you about her, didn't I? She worked for the Kirke family years and years ago."

My heart gave an electrified jolt. My deft hands stumbled and stopped all movement.

Aslan whispered to me in my heart- an important piece was about to fall into place.

"Kirke? Not a Professor Digory Kirke?"

"Digory?" The Mother was genuinely surprised to hear that I was familiar with him, "Oh, yes! Their son. He and his friend used to tell Sarah the wildest stories."

"What kind of stories?" As if I didn't know. This Sarah had heard of Narnia, and all of the secrets that Narnia held. She knew of the beginning. She knew of Aslan and Jadis.

She knew of the language that Aslan had sung to spin Narnia into existence.

"Oh, about magical worlds and talking animals. Rings that could send you anywhere," she reached around me to stroke Hamilton's head, as he had made an ill-sounding noise in his throat. I was impatient for her to speak again, but recognized the look of mourning in her eyes, and didn't press her. Finally; "You know, she used to tell those same stories to her sons, Jimmy and Rupert."

There it was. There it was! My mouth was dry- I thirsted for more.

"Jimmy? As in, 'James'? Where is he now?" I asked urgently, not knowing what she would say, but somehow knowing it would impinge everything.

The Mother frowned at me, "Oh, darling. James Collins was the son that _died_ in that awful train wreck... It must have been over twenty years ago."

_CLANG...! CLANG...!_

* * *

**A/N:**** Thanks to Lirenel, who unknowingly supplied me with the music inspiring this chapter, when she used an "Immediate Music" song for her "Letting Go" trailer all those months ago... "Fury Unleashed" is Peter's Rampage-Mode song. ^__^**

**To ****Jessica**** and anyone else curious about the Narnian Language:**

**The language isn't supposed to be a regular spoken language, like English or Greek or Persian. Old Narnian goes back to the roots of Narnia- It belongs to a **_**song**_**. The importance of the Old Language becomes more prominent in coming chapters, as readers and Pevensies will discover. **

**New Vocabulary:**

**abet- aid, help**

**impinge- affect, impact, make an impression**

**legerdemain- deception, slight-of-hand**

**noisome- unpleasant, or offensive, particularly of smell**


	24. Twenty Four: Payment Enough

**P.E**

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Payment Enough**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: If C.S Lewis were to get a hold of this, Collins would be one of those things he warned your parents about.**

* * *

_"A man's own folly ruins his life, yet his heart rages against the Lord," Proverbs 19:3_

* * *

Are you listening to me, Little King? Because I want to you hear what I about to tell you. It concerns the both of us. How about I tell you a little story to pass the time? Until I can return to Her in the form She promised me.

Or until your fool of a brother comes bumbling in to save the day, perhaps. Fear not, child: I will easily dispose of him before he can so much as clear the doorway. But where shall I begin? I suppose my first birth will do? Very well.

I was born on December 9, 1920 to Sarah Olivia Marcy Collins, following a three year reprieve after by brother, Rupert.

Her husband and my father, Richard-Everett Collins was somehow capable of being less than impressed by me. In fact, he was rarely impressed with his life as a whole. Nothing about his miserable lot in it was ever fully satisfying. His job at the textile factory was dismal, his marriage to my mother a dead end, his sons were not enough to succeed whatever irrational expectations he held. I was doomed to be informed of my failings in athletics, academia, and anything else. Rupert, having the premium level of expectations due to a first-born, might as well have never existed. You see, Edmund, you are lucky to have had your father shipped off the continent.

When he _did _venture to take a break from his work or his drink (both of which he was deeply devoted to), he would be at home with us to criticize what we could dare to offer him.

When he _wasn't_ at home, my mother would take us onto her lap, or (when we were older) tuck us into our small, shared cot, and tell us exciting stories. There were the classics, of course: King Arthur, George and the Dragon, St. Patrick and the serpents of Ireland...

But _my _favorite stories were of Narnia.

Ah, yes, my dear child. I do know of your precious "secret."

From what I could gather, my mother had worked for a family called the Kirkes when she was around fifteen or sixteen years old, at the start of the twentieth century. During her employment to them, odd events had taken place, where a mad woman who believed herself a Queen and terrorized much of London in a runaway cart. After she had disappeared, mother's young master and his friend began to share with her a plethora of fantastic tales of a world far from this one.

_Narnia_, they had called it. _Narnia_ and _Talking Animals _and _Aslan_ and the _magic_ Apple Tree that guarded its borders-!

I began to long for it, after a while. My brother, Rupert, teased me when we'd grown up a bit. Told me I was "pining" for the imaginary. He didn't understand how I could want something that didn't exist. Hope for something that would never be. He told me it wasn't logical. That magic was impossible and I should be content with my life in England.

_This_ drab, dead, depressing England.

I had tried to take his council- he was, after all, my older brother- and I found a job that relaxed my family's need to rely solely on our steadily-indebted father. I had few friends, but steady ones, and my time and energy began to be fully focused on those few extra pennies I could add to my pay.

...But I continued to feel drawn from this world. A sharp tugging would echo in my stomach when I lay awake at night. I dreamed of tall, beautiful enchantresses and knitting prairie dogs. I caught myself gazing off at nothing during classes and work at the old bike shop, my mind filled with impossible places and illogical events. With Rupert managing our fares, working in the shipping docks, and our father grudgingly continuing his line of work, I might have lived like that forever.

It only takes one mistake, you remember?

It was ordinary- hated, but very common. Our father _would_ hit our mother when he was particularly distressed with our stretched livelihood (which was nearly daily) and Rupert and I would sit on our cot together until father had ceased or gotten bored or decided he was more hungry for a fresh pint than for domestic violence. Rupert often held me during that. Much like yours. Quietly, we would feel the stinging slap within our own breasts, the dull pain following it and the despairing pulling at our intestines that we just might have deserved to feel _that afraid _of him.

We were not, after all, nearly enough for the likes of our father.

So I _hated _when he hit my mother. I _hated_ the powerlessness I felt about it, because when I grew older I _knew_ that I could fight him, and I knew that I could _win _when he was fighting drunkenly, and yet I knew he could- _would_- leave us all if I bested him.

Without my father's income, we would not survive the winter, because we would not be able to afford a home, or if we found a home we couldn't afford enough food for the three of us.

We didn't have enough.

I didn't make enough.

It was never enough.

It was a completely natural thing to happen. My father had lost his job. He came home angry, drunk, and wanting to hit something. Someone. My mother.

And I _loved_ my mother, Edmund.

He'd been looking for an excuse all evening, to make it seem like he was punishing her for her wrongdoing. Rupert wasn't home, which left me to sit alone on the cot, hands twisted in thin woolen sheets, watching him watch her like some half-starved and purple-faced wild dog. My heart had been beating out of my chest, my stomach tugging me into despair, my mind screaming with the mantra: _'Rupert, come home, Rupert, come home, Rupert __**come home**__-!'_

Have you ever cried out for your brother, and realized he wasn't omnipotent? That even he couldn't contain the world? I bet you have.

Mother had finally slipped, dropped our watered-down milk in a bottle and looked at it while it lay on the ground. Her eyes had been hopeless; her will had been long since broken. I remember thinking how pure the milk looked on the dirty, dented flooring. Unblemished against the tacky, crumbling ground. She'd looked up our father, who was rising from his chair in a burst of anger, and she didn't throw up a hand to defend herself.

She simply looked at him.

And when he was laying dead on the floor a moment later, a broken milk glass jammed through his throat, I remember looking back across the room at the cot as it swayed on uneven legs. It shifted anxiously as Rupert came slamming through the door, eyes wild, breath coming in short spurts like he had ran as quickly as his long legs could carry him.

My mother had looked at her dying husband a moment longer before cleaning up the milk with a dirty rag and calling me from my stunned position over his body to pack.

_'There's no use crying over spilled milk,'_ she had told me absently, and I loved her.

Loved her enough to kill for her, as I am sure you have killed before. The scene was nearly merry- Have you seen the type? Something society considers positively inhumane happening beneath your nose, and all you want to do is laugh because you've _never felt so free_-?

The bottle's neck was pouring blood like cherry soda-pop onto the ground. It was pumped out of his left carotid artery, his jugular arching the flow against the steaming glass and mixing with dust beneath him. The man continued spilling soured life where the milk had been only moments before when his eyes fogged over and his rattling, jerking breaths stopped for good.

No one bothered to clean _that _up; nobody cried.

Rupert was pulling me back to the bed, pushing me down to sit, jerking the blanket out from beneath me and piling some of my clothes on top before he tied the corners neatly together.

_'Mum-? Mum, we have to go. We have to get out of here before someone finds out! Quickly!'_

Rupert was all about progress.

_'Where will we go?' _I had asked, watching my father's body release its fluids.

_'America,'_ Rupert had told me, bracing my shoulder with one large hand while he steered me out the door, _'I have some old mates in the yard who owe me- that'll help us pay the fee. We'll have to catch a train first, though. If we walk...'_

If we had walked we would have been caught. So, in reality, I suppose I was never meant to live beyond my fourteenth year. I wonder if he would have preferred to have me die painlessly as a murderer, than agonizingly as an escapee.

You see, Edmund, I died viciously that night. The night of September 12, 1934. I can think of no worse way to exit this world, than by train.

Steel on steel, steel on flesh, steel on bone. Glass in your eyes, in your mouth, down your throat, up your sleeves. Screams of metal, wailing sirens, shrieking onlookers, cackling fires. And at first it's unfathomably hot because the compartment is burning and your brother is burning and your mother is burning and you know, logically, that you are burning as well.

But then... you begin to feel wonderfully and pleasantly colder until you feel absolutely nothing at all.

Or, in my case, you continue to feel cold, because you'd woken in the middle a frozen wasteland and that persistent tugging in your stomach has disappeared at long last.

So really, Edmund my boy, perhaps I was never meant to die after all.

**OoOoOoOoO**

Hartbee's School for Young Men was under attack.

It was an unnoticeable thing at first; There had been several families milling about the gymnasium, taking extra samples from the dessert table, avoiding the puddle of sick from that poor sick girl that had fainted after her brother, talking politely with one another. The night waxed on, and the moon clouded over by dark, ugly, clotted clouds. The air was thick with chill and silent frustration, waiting for the storm to pass before leaving.

Then the first flurries danced cheerily by the windows.

And the flurries became a steady stream of snow, and the snow piled up in front of windows and ledges, and the wind began to howl like some deranged animal outside the walls of the school, and the breeding blizzard raged itself into an icy tempest. It rattled the glass and shook the foundations in it's cold, heartless hold.

The clock struck two, and the world wailed brokenly beyond the families' huddle in the dorms.

Parents held their children, expressions calm but their hearts tugging inexplicably at their chests. Something was going on- not even humans can ignore such blatant signs of atrocities building beneath their very noses. Oh, for sure, they all seemed as though this was only a momentary lapse in fortune. The storm would end; they would go home to their separate mansions and sea-side fortresses in their gleaming automobiles. Soon they would be taking a bed-time sip of brandy and be slipping beneath satin sheets for the night.

Ten minutes passed.

Then twenty.

Half an hour.

Forty minutes trudged painstakingly out, and finally, unable to bear much more, the fathers of the clustered and shivering families stood as one mind and marched resolutely for the exit of the dorm, each donning his Italian-wool coat and fine-silk fedora.

They had a plan, you see, to help dig a path for the ambulance stuck in a snow drift just down the road- One could see just barely it's flashing lights from the high dormitory windows. Knowing that several children had gotten sick during the dinner, the idea had began to circulate around the 2:41 mark that someone (a teacher, originally) should help the stranded paramedics out.

Why not them? Someone- a boy named Jay- had asked, and that idea began to become more popular in the circle. It made sense to find the teachers, find some shovels or brooms, and wade their way over to the ambulance. By the time the group of father's had made up their minds to bring aid, it was ten minutes to three. They were tired, to be honest, but the consistent tug that each of them as pretending wasn't there prodded and poke their heart until every single man (and some of the boys) agreed to get to work.

Bolstered by the support of the other boys and women, the men left the room and herded down the halls to the front foyer.

A roar stopped them in their tracks.

And the unforgiving wave of dark magic that ripped through them next sent them running for their lives.

They knew in their Heart of Hearts that Hartbee's was under attack, even if they couldn't see it.

**OoOoOoOoO**

The senseless magician had tried to hide Edmund from me.

Or maybe he hadn't; Maybe he was toying with me, the way the smug dastard threw splashes of glamour pell-mell over the trail, as if he half-hoped I would find them.

And find them, I did. It was virtually impossible for me to even consider ignoring them. Edmund's prints were slathered over the hallway like fresh jam on bread, colorfully sticking in place. His scent was everywhere. His presence remained warped around stone and brick for every step that he had been carried. A soft, familiar feeling that was wildly knocking against my mind with every stride I took down the halls distracted all thoughts but "Edmund."

What did it matter if I was playing the game as the treacherous snake wanted me to? I would find Edmund, I would save Edmund. And then I would rip that magician's forked tongue out of his mouth and force-feed it back to him.

Distantly, I knew I was immensely relieved at having left Jacobs behind. I could feel my control slipping quickly away, and taking the chance of growing angry (or even slightly irritated) with Jacobs could have endangered him in ways I would never wish on anyone.

Well, anyone except the magician. A deluded giggle gagged me for a moment; visions of getting my hands on the disgusting brother-thief welled up in my minds' eye. Gore ensued.

'_Remember Aslan…' _Lucy's memory warned me in low tones. With my blood pumping this quickly, it felt as though she was standing right next to me, her bright eyes piercing through the gale surely swallowing my mind.

I was trying. Aslan help me, but I was _trying-!_

But I knew now. The magician. The one who had been kicking-up Edmund's Feeling all year. The one who had been twisting my brother around his finger while I sat clueless on the sidelines, literally watching it happen.

'_Collins.'_

My vision swam at that tiny, innocent thought, threateningly edging with a mottled pink, and I took a deep breath to steady myself. Even thinking the man's- no, the _monster's_- name was enough to tip me headlong into a rage. All the times that Edmund had met up with Collins for appointments about his schedule. How it had been Collins' idea for Edmund to join the rugby team in the first place. How distracted and nervous my brother had been before and after every interaction with him. My brother, Edmund. The silver-tongued King. The cool-headed snark that would just could just as easily disarm someone _with_ as sword as without it. Just how ghastly was Collins, if he had such a leash on my fellow king?

And I had let the creature come _inside of our home! _I had _permitted_ him to _touch_ _my only and dearest __**brother**__-!_

'_You're losing control…Save your strength.'_

A deep inhale was drawn through my nose and gusted out of my mouth. My limbs never ceased in movement. I had to keep myself calm until I found my brother. I had to conserve my energies until the moment I needed it the most. Otherwise I'd utterly destroy the first object that happened to cross my path.

Again, I was eternally glad that Jacobs had stayed behind.

I ran down the hallway, passing locked classroom doors on every side. Maybe others would have paused to see if they were hiding in one, but maybe others aren't connected to their siblings like I am to mine. When my siblings need me, I help them. And Aslan help the poor unfortunate who dares to dissuade me.

Our scribes had recorded that each of us was given a Gift, when we became Kings and Queens of Narnia. Aslan had granted them to us the very moment our crowns were lowered onto our young, insouciant brows. They helped us rule, kept each other safe, and warded off disaster. Aslan had left us well looked-after, but in coming back to England, those gifts had waned. Became watered-down and grayed-out much like anything else in this despicably dead world.

Lucy no longer had visions of the future, instead she had bizarre dreams. Edmund no longer saw attempts at our lives the moment the decision to take them was made, nor could he see the tar-like guilt streaming from their eyes, their mouth, or oozing out of their hands. He retained a nagging feeling in his heart and gut that told him when something was amiss. Like my brother and sister, my Gift had been worn down to something far more vague.

But our natural gifts remained intact, and for this reason, I needed my Highest King more than ever.

I barreled past the locked doors, my heart tugging to the right side of my chest, thinning the air to my lungs, and I followed after it, twisting off to the side hallway that led down to the offices. My heart was _lub-dubbing_ away in my throat. My fingers melded to the metal beneath the leather grip of Lucy's knife.

My mind was filled with blurring pictures, words, and blood.

'_I will not allow it to come to pass, _Provis_. I won't let that serpent come anywhere __**near**__ you...'_

So much for promises. Little had I known that Edmund had been fending the snake off the entire time. Why hadn't he told me? He'd _known._ I _know_ he'd known exactly who would-

'-_Don't say it again! I can't bear it! _Please_ don't say it again!'_

-He'd known exactly who we were looking for. So why hadn't he told me?

'_**One**__ of us has to live, you realize…' _Edmund could have been running at my side, the voice was so clear and corporeal, and in that horrible moment, I startled so completely, that I tripped over my own feet and nearly went crashing to the ground. My heart was not so much pounding as pummeling against its ribbed cage, trying to tear out of my body, trying to stop the terrifying truth seeping through me. Edmund hadn't been keeping me in the dark only to save me worry:

_I_ had been the sibling setting off his Feeling all year._ I_ had been the one in danger of dying.

Edmund wasn't being my guardian.

He was acting as my sacrifice.

I skidded to a halt, a large, wooden door looming up before me, rising tall and rearing its gleaming head, as though proving itself as my next combatant.

'_You will not be at fault for the outcome of Lucy's dream…'_ Edmund must have still with me, wrapping his arms around my chest, squeezing the air out of my lungs. I couldn't breathe as fully as I needed; the world was starting to shift its colour to raw and rust. The blade in my palm came to life, twisting around through my fingers so that the handle came out of the top of my fist, and the blade was shunted at the ground. Imperfections in the wood outlined narrowed eyes and grinning teeth.

'…_And I love you.' _Edmund's voice whispered to me, ghostly fingers pulling my eyelids shut so that some odd wetness escaped them.

With a roar so deep and resonating that it must not have sounded human, I brought the blade over my head and slammed it into the wood of the office door. It struck the distorted image of the monster in the right eye. I yanked it back out and plunged it back in, feeling the satisfying grating of metal on splintering lumber.

'_I will always be the Protector…'_

"_**You're my brother!**_" my voice was terrible, coming from a part of me I never knew could speak its mind, and the door was soon ratcheted with gouging holes and frenzied trenches of carved-up wood, "_You're not supposed to be__** anything **__but my__** brother! Give him back! Give him back, you monster! **__**GIVE ME BACK MY BROTHER!**_"

Every unholy scream was another stabbing of my dagger into the grainy body of the door. The sneering face was pulled taut in fear now. Edmund was just out of my sight, standing on the edge of my vision, looking at me without reproach or fear, but filled with accepting sadness. I tried to twist to look at him, though some part of me whispered the possibility that he wasn't really there at all, and he vanished, reappearing on my other side.

"_**Gone, gone, gone, gone, gone-!"**_

'_Peter? Peter, you need to calm down…'_

Calm down? Edmund wanted me to calm down. How was Edmund even there? Maybe it wasn't too late- Maybe I could still save him-!

"_**Don't do it, Edmund! Don't do it! Let **__**me**__** die instead! Let me help you! Edmund, **__**don't do it**__**!"**_

'_The key…'_ my brother's voice surrounded me, carried by a memory, '_Not here. Come on… I have the key_…'

The master key. Dumbly, I pulled away from the torn and shredded door to lightly touch the lanyard dangling from my neck. Cool metal found its way into my hand.

'_Really, Peter,_' Edmund's phantom seemed to chide, '_There's a reason I was in charge of stealth and you weren't.'_

Trembling violently with adrenaline and something altogether more detrimental, I brought the teeth of the key to the door knob and slid them in. The key fit, as Hamilton had told me it would, and with a twist of my wrist, the lock unbolted.

I pulled open the door with one hand, readying the knife with the other.

"Edmund?!"

The stinging blast of Dark Magic bowled me over as it exploded out of the entryway, a chilling laugh from my most haunting nightmares riding the impetus smoothly out. A chariot of nightmares.

_'I've seen what the White Witch can do...'_

Lights in the ceiling and along the windows flickered temperamentally as it passed, twisting shadows crawled at break-neck speed down the hall, and objects flashed with the illusion of animation. But nothing could compare to the smell that drowned out all other senses in my body, greedily consuming my mind and mercilessly plaguing my thoughts with despair.

_'And I've helped Her do it.'_

It was the smell of Carnage.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Ten minutes until Collins' deadline. Peter's cutting it kinda close, there. **

**So! We've learned a bit more about James Collins' past, though the finer details WILL be cleared up by the end of this story (never fear), Peter's seeing Edmund when Edmund isn't there, the rich folks are freaking out, and magic is building up for the spell. **

**Next chapter= Peter versus Collins. It will be violent, it will have blood, and there will be mindless insanity. Oh, and there's character death as well. Just a fair warning. **

**Questions, comments, concerns, or ludicrous remarks may be posted via review, or sent to me by Private Message. Thank you all for reading! **

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

**New Vocabulary:**

**dastard- **base coward

**impetus**- moving or driving force

**insouciant- **carefree, unconcerned


	25. Twenty Five: Peter's End

**P.E**

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Peter's End**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: At the end of the day, the only ones I really want to keep are the ones I have to share with about a bazillion other writers on here...**

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"_In my distress, I called to the Lord; I cried to my God for help. From his temple he heard my voice; my cry came before him, into his ears. The earth trembled and quaked, and the foundations of the mountains shook; they trembled because he was angry. Smoke rose from his nostrils; consuming fire came from his mouth, burning coals blazed out of it," Psalm 18:6-8_

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**---**_I pulled open the door with one hand, readying the knife with the other._

_"Edmund?"_

_The stinging blast of Dark Magic bowled me over as it exploded out of the entryway, a chilling laugh from my most haunting nightmares riding the impetus smoothly out. A chariot of nightmares._

_Lights in the ceiling and along the windows flickered temperamentally as it passed, twisting shadows crawled at break-neck speed down the hall, and objects flashed with the illusion of animation. But nothing could compare to the smell that drowned out all other senses in my body, greedily consuming my mind and mercilessly plaguing my thoughts with despair._

_It was the smell of Carnage._

**OoOoOoOoO**

When the outside hammering and scraping at the door stopped, and the incensed howl of the bottled-up _Roraithan_ escaped to rattle the very foundations of the school through Collin's loafers, he knew that Peter Pevensie had been swallowed up by his own despairs. The Night Terrors, the darkness that bred and festered in each and every student's head had accumulated over the year, had been building for _this _moment.

The moment when the Four Sovereigns would realize the weight of his power.

He had defeated all who dared oppose him in this world. In only minutes he would return to Her as he had first met her: young, strong-minded, and utterly devoted. Together, they would bring Narnia crashing to the frost-licked ground. Each crunch of fresh-packed snow beneath their feet would echo a terrible rumbling of stone and mortar shattering by their power.

And they would be together. And his mother would _live-!_

-And someone rammed an old waiting bench against his door. Bits of dust and dead fly wings to film the entryway like a veil, fresh dirt thrown up like a dirty trick in the midst of a brawl.

Collins, who had been sitting beside Edmund's body on the couch, with a brandy in one hand and an overwhelming ecstasy filling him from his toes to the top of his hairless head, went still. His reptilian smile remained in place.

_-BANG!_

A second, violent, methodical barreling of boxed pine versus stained oak made the edges of Collin's mouth sag a bit, its tight coil loosening in discontent, though his eyes seemed to enjoy this latest joke from the Universe.

Because it was impossible. Because he _knew _that Peter Pevensie was not standing behind that door. Not with the spell that _he _had cast on him. All of Pevensie's assets were gone; it was difficult enough containing his laughter about the foolishness of it all.

-_BANG!_

"Oh, why don't you run along, little king?" Collins finally snapped, as he set down his glass and smoothed the hair from Edmund's waxy forehead, "Or I might just forget about letting Eddie have his part of the Deal."

_-BANG!_

A low voice murmured wordlessly on the other side, and James Collins brought a thick arm around Edmund's lighter form, propping him upright and guiding his meaty fingers to steady the wobbling head. The whites of his student's eyes could just barely be seen under the graying, diaphanous lids and brittle lashes.

"So sorry, my boy, but Edmund doesn't really feel like taking visitors now- He and I have lots to do." He glanced at the clock on the wall.

Eight minutes. He could wait an hour and a day and Edmund's brother wouldn't have so much as scraped the finish off the wood.

He was forced to confess, though, that the twinge of nerves was not so much the actual violence on the old door, as the calm and paced way that the bench was being heaved against it.

After all, hadn't Pevensie just been screaming his bleeding heart out from the outside? The rapid change to hysteric silence reaffirmed Collin's growing unsettlement. It was the _manner_ in which the older brother went at his task that spit a needling of doubt into the Headmaster's gut. It was the eerie way that Peter no longer rushed, not longer beat at the door with his tangled emotions slopping up the deed.

Perhaps if the brat-king had known he only had seven minutes left?

-_BANG!_

A soft staccato of feet backing up for another ramming flicked a short laugh out of the back of his throat, and he swallowed a small gulp of his drink, rinsing the burning liquid around his teeth.

Part of his realized that Peter must have been feeling similarly to how Collins had felt before killing his father: simultaneously mindless and brilliant. It was how madness operated- its own modus operandi, if you would. With insanity, there came a sudden freedom of the mind, where everything made perfect sense. Sense in ways that you knew should be simple and logical to anyone. And yet no one could see what you saw, or understand how you knew what to do and when. It was like being God- the mortals would forever pin their pathetic sins on you.

The experience must have been terrifying for young Mr. Pevensie.

And yet, it was still almost humorous, because Pevensie was _bewitched_, and thought that the cheap waiting bench would put a crack the sturdy and ancient barrier between them.

Just how completely had the poor boy lost his mind?

-_BANG!_

Feeling gracious (and deciding the insistent crashes would give him a headache), Collins decided to employ some comforting small-talk.

"I'm beginning to wish you were still yammering for your deceased relative. But go ahead-Throw things all you want, my boy. That door has stood the test of time."

-_BANG!_

"You should understand," Collins said, feeling something almost like pity for the older brother. Pity and smug satisfaction. "When you opened that door, you cursed _yourself._ The Gifts you and your siblings wrote to each other about? I prepared something to ensure they wouldn't aid you this night. The darkness you released from that miserable woman's waiting room: This curse completely demolishes them. Your precious _Strength_ is long gone. By now, yours sisters would have been affected as well. Opening that door put an end to your connections to Narnia for-"

"-_KE-HEH-HEH-HEH-HEH-HEH-HEHE!"_

There was a short, slightly sobering moment when Collins realized the low, gurgling cry pressed up against the outside of the door was, in fact, a mad laugh. A true, honest-to-God, manic laugh. One that seemed to grow in volume and mount exorbitantly up in its pitch until Pevensie was choking on gasping hag-like shrieks.

-_BANG...! BANG...!_

Laughing and hammering with a pine bench, with his brother dead by Collins' side and with a dead secretary stinking up the waiting room by Peter's side, the door began to rattle in a heavier, far more dreadful manner.

Like it might just give way after all.

"Give it up, boy!" Collins bawled at the door, now standing and inching cautiously over to prepare to lift Edmund into his arms, with his dark eyes never leaving the exit for a single moment, "You cannot fight me as you are! You are _weak!_ Your only brother is _dead _and I have _claimed_ him!" Bubbly glee filled his gut and puffed him up until he could contain his victory no longer, "Go! Run home like the cowardly lion who fumbled you into a crown!"

-_BANg__**KRUNCH!**__"_

A mighty crack signaled that a single, half-meter split had burst down the center of the door, and Collins leaped back for the body on the couch, dragging it up and holding it tightly to his chest. With his left hand, he leveled his fingers at the split, and marked a strange design on the air before him, muttering what could have been a beautiful language, if it hadn't been so corrupted by the swollen lips that spat it out.

"_Vignea! _[Seal!]_"_

The door began to glow, and with an odd squelching noise, the split welded together and the edges molded to the door frame, effectively sealing the room like an airtight box. With a deep breath of exertion, Collin's eyes shot to the far clock and he crowed;

"HA! A few minutes time and what's left of Edmund will have gone with me. You had your chance, you fool! I WIN!"

The waiting room dropped silent.

Collins could hear the quiet shuffling as Pevensie heavily set the bench down, the creaking of the waiting room door. No doubt the boy was such a saint that he would bring back some one to take care of Ms Helen Dupree's rotting carcass. It was high time Collin's had been able to get rid of the nag. The terrible old bat and her hag-like face, her disapproving glare- so much like HIS- and her stench! That awful, old-ladyish, reeking odor of some sort of-

_Fire._

Delicately, he sniffed at the air, nostrils flaring.

Collins smelled fire. Smoke was gently twirling upwards from beneath the door. The twisted pillars swelled and fill the room.

Alarmed, it was all the magician could do, to draw Edmund closer to him before the door caught merrily aflame, its entirety smoking, burning, filling Collin's eyes and ears with that familiar crackle. That smell of burning wood...burning fuel... burning flesh...

He had not seen a fire since-!

No- It was a nightmare. It was only a loose Night Terror trying to fool him. An unforeseen, but not unmanageable backlash of his own spell. It must have slipped in the crack when the bumbling idiot managed to break the door. But _what the devil_ could Pevensie have made the fire from? Unless he was the type to carry matches around with him and had something that could burn faster than oak?

The fire smelled like a typewriter. Like strong chemicals and powerfully reminiscent of certain scowling secretaries.

_-Ker-WHUMPH!_

With a dying moan, the door creaked on its hinges, then slowly leaned forward, flopping in a wave of flames onto the Persian rug, which lit up nicely too. The rug burned away and part of fire reached up and snagged the desk, and the official papers there caught like candles, and the entryway was wreathed in a massive arc of fire and smoke, burning black and peeling the wall paper as it ate up the ceiling.

Collins couldn't breathe very easily anymore. Could breathe, couldn't see, couldn't and didn't dare to move as a tall, eerily calm figure stepped over the starter pile of pine-wood bench, old suit jacket, what smelled suspiciously like the ink tapes of an old typewriter, and the spark-spitting, naked wires from the wall lamp. The light bulb was still on and sputtering crazily, shooting bizarre lighting over the red of the bonfire that was once the Headmaster's office.

Sparks teased at the golden ends of Pevensie's swirling hair. Fire sputtered out on the bottom of his pant leg from where he had kicked in the fiery door. His eyes, which Collins had always come to view constantly mystified like some awe-struck babe, were colder and hotter than any taste of Hate or Anger Collins had felt in his life.

Five minutes.

"There is something more you should know about the four of us, before you die," the High King told him, wiping the edge of a wicked knife along the sleeve of his undershirt with gentle consideration, "The first of which, should be noted that you- having never been adopted or born on Narnian soil like us, have no right to speak in Aslan's tongue."

The bookcases along the wall only contributed to the crescendo of heat within the miniature inferno, and if either had chosen to glance at the far windows behind the blazing desk, they might have noticed that the snow outside turned to rain and evaporated with a chorus of hissing before it ever touched the glass.

"Secondly," Pevensie added, not reacting as the ceiling boards above him rained fragments of star-like fireballs around his glowing head, "My Gift, as you say you magicked away, was not some useless super strength."

He turned dead, stone eyes on the magician, mouth frozen in a grim sneer.

"Which is a pity for you."

Lighting tore the sky apart, thunder chasing so closely after that they were impossible to discern from the other. The school shook and trembled. Fire fell from above, catching on Collin's long robes, threatening to take back what they had once attempted to claim. In a deranged sort of momentary panic, he flailed at them, batting fire away with his hands to shield the body in his arms from destruction. The flash and rumble caused Peter to blink, and his eyes went unfocused, like he was waking within a dream.

His eyes lit on the corpse of his brother, and his gaze softened in a _volte-face_.

"It's all right, Edmund," Peter earnestly told his brother's corpse, reaching out as though to bundle the dead child into his arms, "It's all going to be fine. I'm going to get you out of here."

"You're not taking him anywhere!" Collins snarled, "Jadis has given him to me!"

Again, he brought up his hand, and with a mighty, back-handing swoop, an invisible force picked Peter up and slammed him angrily against the blazing bookcases. Fiery shelves crumbled and slid from their height to bury him.

Placing Edmund on the couch, Collins rolled up his sleeves and advanced on the fire, glaring through them to catch sight of the eldest Pevensie.

"How dare you- HOW _DARE_ YOU! I've been merciful! I know of your campaign against Her Imperial Majesty. _I know_- and I let you live."

Collin's face twisted in disappointment so profound, it appeared that he was really an angry young boy instead of a furious man.

"We might have been _brothers-!"_

Thick, dark eyebrows knit and thunder electrified his look of utter disgust for the fallen King before him.

"Well, NEVER AGAIN. Today I join Her! _Today you __**die!**__"_

With a twist of his flattened wrists, the flames before him guttered and parted like fine draperies, framing the form of Peter, who lay on the ground in singed clothes and blistered skin. His face was smothered by an ashy carpet, covering one side in a dusty grey.

"How wonderful that you who would end a world of Ice would die in a room of fire!" Collins jeered, and lifted his arms so that the flames rose with them, "_TELL ASLAN I'LL SEE HIM IN HELL!"_

But instead, a wicked blade shot from the floor into the wide opening of his screaming lips.

With a deranged and pain-filled howl, the Headmaster jerked back, tearing the knife from his mouth, spewing handfuls of blood onto the carpet, where the intense heat dried it into fat, powdery lumps before it touched the ground. The fires collapsed to the ground next to the weapon, their puppeteer roughly relinquishing them to grasp at his own blood-belching lips.

The High King was on his feet. And then he was knocking the unctuous Snake off of his.

The boy loosed a punch into the sack-like quality of Collin's fleshy stomach, and the force behind it was such that (regardless of the extra protection it permitted) Collins' remaining breath left him in a bellowing _WHOOSH! _The, with the magician doubled over, Peter swung his knee upwards- resulting in a loud _crack_ of snapping cartilage and fragile bone.

Collins, staggering away, blinded by the stars, and water, and filmy red hatred in his eyes, put up his hands in supplication, trying to say, 'Stop!' or 'Mercy!' but finding it impossible- _physically impossible_- to form the words in time.

The blade had split his tongue into perfect halves; there would be no abating Peter Pevensie's pursuit of him this time.

"A serpent tongue gives you away," Peter said, and still advanced without weapon; seeking only to kill his brother's murderer with his bare hands.

Collins let out a garbled cry and lunged for Edmund, but Peter was there before he could brush so much as the outside edge of the younger boy's sleeve. Strong fingers had a hold on Collins' by the gaudy silver chain he wore around his neck, screwing the links around his fist so that the thick rope of metal dug into the fatty flesh of the serpent's throat.

"_Jadis?"_ the cold voice was back. Peter was not looking to Edmund. He seemed to have forgotten his entire reason for being there in the first place.

Collins was roughly pushed against the edge his burning desk and somehow found the oxygen in that jarring movement to feed a curious thought: This Peter and the Other Peter, seemed to be two completely separate people. And although Other Peter certainly seemed to care about his family, This Peter didn't seem to care about anyone.

"I met Jadis once. In battle," he jerked his fists so that the necklace was nearly strangling his opponent and leaned in close, his cool breath tickling Collin's ear "_She thought she could kill me, too."_

This Peter shook him, banging his head against scorching fire and charred wood; notice absent of the world steadily consumed by perishing heat around them.

"_She did as you thought to do: She took something of mine." _

Blood was dripping down Collin's neck, from where the necklace had dug a little too deeply.

Then it was dried by the heat of the desk.

"_And I __**chased**__ after Her. I chased Her, and still She took something of mine. And when it was gone- I-_" something in his countenance shuddered, though not a single muscle twitched in the scattered and every-dancing flames,_ "__**Peter**__- was gone. Peter, you see, didn't __**exist **__after that. Peter was laying __**dead**__ yards away with a hole for the grass to worm through."_

The jolt of energy racing across This Peter's face was almost imperceptible. But this close, it was difficult for Collins to ignore it. Especially when the cobalt blue of This Peter's eyes looked tinged with blood.

"_**I was all that was left of him**__."_

A gnawing began in his gut and surged upwards until not only his flesh, but his guts and internal organs raged with the panicking snap of boiling adrenaline. Distantly, his oxygen-starved brain knew that his hands were uselessly flopping around the floor in search of a tool or weapon to dislodge the madman from his throat. Distantly, his brain knew that such a hope was futile. He couldn't even scream for help to an empty hallway.

Frigid air whistled into the auricle of his ear, and the grip of the chain grew so that stars lit up light bursting supernovas within the bonfire office.

"_**Didn't you know, sir, that some consider their Sanity a Gift?"**_

So it had destroyed the Pevensie's last ties to Narnia. They were cut off forever.

The spell had worked.

_CLANG...!_

And the time had come.

Hate and Anger were truly powerful emotions, bringing the mightiest kings to their knees to plead for their lives. They could curse and topple and raze an entire nation to the fine dust of its beginnings.

But Fear was handy in a quick escape; Jadis had used it often enough. He remembered watching her shift into an old stump once, and another time into a beautiful little girl.

James Collins would become something else.

It was not even in a breaths space that Collins willed himself to become like the creature Pevensie so associated him with. Before the eldest child could react, his fat body elongated, neck stretching and thinning into gleaming coils of smooth, glass-like scales beneath the sterling silver chains. His butchered tongue flicked outwards, blood spitting like poison into the mad boy's face, momentarily blinding him.

"_**NOOOOO-!"**_

_CLANG...!_

And with Edmund's body wound up in his ten-meter long tail, he zipped past Pevensie, the brush of his arching body was more like a collision with a bus. Pevensie was thrown back again, still screaming until a melodious sound like a skull cracking (or cracking against) glass windows reached the Magician's sensitive ears.

And he slid from the burning lair like jagged lightning-

-Only to be rugby-tackled on his escape into the outside hall.

_CLANG...!_

The courtyard clock struck three.

Witching hour had begun.

The spell had worked;

There was a tug in his stomach, the sensation of being pulled through a narrow opening, and Collins was suddenly submerged in weightless liquid, with one body in his grasp, and one struggling to keep its hold on him as they hurtled for the surface of the pool.

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**A/N: End of year projects and viruses barely let me finish this chapter. But here it is! Comments, corrections, questions can be sent via review or PM. One week left, and then I'm scot-free for writing fan fics for this site.**

**Have a great weekend!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

**New Vocabulary:**

**exorbitant: **_unreasonably, disproportionately_

**diaphanous: **_almost see-through_

**volte-face:** _a complete change of attitude about something_


	26. Twenty Six: Preternatural Escape

**P.E**

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Preternatural Escape**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: Because sobbing inconsolably on the floor won't help me in the least.**

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_"All of us also lived among them at one time, gratifying the cravings of our sinful nature and following its desires and thoughts. Like the rest, we were by nature objects of anger and wrath. But because of His great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive in Christ even when we were dead in transgressions- it is by __**grace **__you have been saved," Ephesians 2:3-5_

_

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_

CLANG...!

_And with Edmund's body wound up in his ten-meter long tail, he zipped past Pevensie, the brush of his arching body was more like a collision with a bus. Pevensie was thrown back again, still screaming until a melodious sound like a skull cracking (or cracking against) glass windows reached the Magician's sensitive ears._

_And he slid from the burning lair like jagged lightning-_

_-Only to be rugby-tackled on his escape into the outside hall._

_CLANG...!_

_The courtyard clock struck three._

_Witching hour had begun._

_The spell had worked;_

_There was a tug in his stomach, the sensation of being pulled through a narrow opening, and Collins was suddenly submerged in weightless liquid, with one body in his grasp, and one struggling to keep its hold on him as they hurtled for the surface of the pool._

**OoOoOoOoO**

_'I'm a human bolus,'_ Jacobs' mind was dully telling him, _'And the world is vomitting me up.'_

The world, in fact, had become a pinched straw, with Cain in the very center of the unvierse's squeezing fingertips. All sight, sound, feeling, was narrowed to a point that Cain was sure he would soon also lose the ability to breathe a full breath. He could smell nothing but the scent of his own nasal passages- a sort of salty, musty, near-gagging smell. He tasted the crab from the Parent Evening as if it, too, had dared to make a re-entrance into his mouth, it's slightly bitter tang twisting his tongue in a swallowing reflex.

When the pinching intensified, it became cold and smothering. Cain fancied he felt a vague sort of slippery, bumpy surface under his fingers (if he still had fingers) and distantly thought a pair hard-soled shoes were knocking gracelessly against his shins. His mind was becoming pudding within his skull, his entire cranium had been wedged beneath a vengeful letterpress, squeezing the very juices from his brain.

_'Am I dying? Am I being thrown up or swallowed?'_

Both, perhaps? It held the same feeling as an elevator- the sudden loss and gain of weight, an uncertainty that felt like dropping, but with your senses simeltaneously screaming that you were _still_ being held in the same metal lift in the department store's tie section.

Was he still at Hartbee's? When the opprobrious sensation finally ceased to disorient him, would he open his eyes to find himself wrapped around a giant snake in the middle of the hallway?

To be quite fair to poor Cain Jacobs- it had _not_ been his bright idea to go lunging after a hissing, ten-foot-long, and clearly _poisonous _snake. Not at all. In fact, his best idea of the entire school year had been to follow Peter Pevensie's advise and return to the gymnasium to check after the two sisters and Thomas.

And then something grabbed hold of his legs.

The reader may remember that odd Something that grabbed hold of Jacobs shortly after Edmund Pevensie's mishap on the rugby pitch; When he had tried to escape a certain brotherly moment of bonding, the freezing force binding the muscles in his feet and legs had refused to grant him the ability to move from the spot he stood on. Instead, he'd been caught by Thomas outside the med bay door, and the two had had a rather disgruntling conversation that all but ended their long friendship. Eventually, it had let him go, and Jacobs had ended up blaming the incident on a subconcious reaction to the guilt he was feeling, quite forgetting all about the dreadful event.

But the Something did not.

Jacobs had made it _maybe _half-way back to the gymnasium to avoid Peter Pevensie's obviously pending wrath, when a steeling strength spread down his legs from the top of his leg to the tip of his little toe. Startled, he had found his feet reversing against his will and beginning to pick up speed until he was full-out sprinting down the glossy corridors.

It was exactly like when Pevensie had been dragging him along earlier- inexplicable power tapping into him from an unseen, unknown, untraceable source. It was nearly magic. It was surreal- _preternatural. _

It was racing him inhumanly down the hallways, stirring up team banners and event fliers that tapered from their tacks pinning the wall to them. He was lunging, running without ever growing weary, mounting up on that unseen force as if he could spread wings and take-off the the ground at any moment. He had never felt so free, so weightless, worriless, or happy in all the days of his life.

He smelled fire.

The entire ordeal took place in a matter of seconds: First, Cain smelled the smoky tang of hickory wood and furniture polish, then he saw the licking flames tearing mournfully against the open office door. And while he was busy wondering just when, pray tell, the building had been set on fire and why the _blazes_ the fire alarms weren't going off already, a monstruous band of living, writhing scales errupted from the mouth of the reception door, a slack form dangling from the tail end of steel-trap jaws and sword-sharp teeth.

Yet the Something did not slow down in the least when facing such a brute.

He must have yelled- Who could possibly resist such a base human reaction when charging for certain death? He must have yelled, and he distantly heard the courtyard bell strike a third time.

And once he'd slammed full force into that wall of brick-sized scales, wrapped his arms around the sewercap-round tail, and prayed to whoever was listening to _SAVE ME!_, the world swallowed him whole.

Colours, if there had been colours, had been gulped down with him, twisting into a fuzzy, twitching blackness along with every reliable sense of direction. For what felt like ten years had actually been less than ten miliseconds. Then the colours, smells, tastes, sounds, and feelings came rushing back so suddenly and so violently, that he almost dared to inhale while under the water's surface-

_Did dare_, Cain breathed curiously inward, surprised on a variety of levels when his lungs didn't protest and force the placid, sea-green liquid back out of his body.

His head had already broken the surface. Coming back to himself somewhat, Cain flailed for the shore of the small pool he was wading in and crawled up the side of the grassy embankment, feeling a little ironic that, on top of all else, his clothes were perfectly dry from the plunge.

"But then, why not?" he asked agreeably, turning to the large, sweating man across the pool and the young boy in his arms, "Do I know you?"

Both were pale and dark-headed, though one was a lifeless grey, like someone who'd recently been quite ill, and the other was flushed in his plump cheeks from exhertion.

"How can you stand it?" the fat man gasped, nearly doubled over in pain. Blood poured off his lips, and a lisp marred most of his words, "How can you stand there smiling like an idiot in this terrible place?"

Cain didn't know what the man's problem was, but he felt a sharp prick agaisnt his heart at the word "idiot" and another in the way that the man scowled pugnaciously at the pleasant wood around them.

Cain thought that the place was absolutely beautiful; The tall trees were gently swaying in an invisible breeze, thick around their trunks and lush with rich ever-green leaves. The air was just as still as the waters of the multiples pools scattered around the wood, and as calmly hushing as the motionless boughs murmuring lullabies above them. One could almost forget everything...

"Fool!" the man lisped, and struggled to stand with the boy in his arms, the flush in his cheeks steadily spread down to his swaying jowls and ran like spilled cranberry juice down the sides and front of his neck, "What did you do? WHAT DID YOU DO?"

"I didn't do anything! I've just been standing here, minding my own business!" Cain shouted back hotly, his chest throbbing with a troubling boil of energy, like a shaken bottle of hornets, "What are you so bothered about?"

"That spell was only meant for two passengers: Myself and my puppet! You've ruined _everything!_"

"Hey-" Cain began, "I'm really, truly sorry for whatever I apparently did, sir-" He froze.

_Sir-_

_Collins_.

His mind frantically backtracked.

_"Snake!"_ Cain whispered, eyes darting around the treeline, in case it came slithering out with its maw aimed at him, "What happened to that giant snake? It had Pevensie's brother- Wait. Spell? What do you mean 'Spell'? Like magic? Real magic- that's why we're- Where are we?"

"This brother, you mean?" Collins brushed a stray peice of hair from the face of the boy resting against him, and Cain felt the blood drain out of his face while Collins smiled lovingly down at the corpse of Edmund, "We're in a form of purgatory for Cosmic Travelers. This is the Wood Between the Worlds. It is a fabled and revered place- by mortals, of course. Jadis never cared for it. Would that my fangs could have sunk a little deeper at the first bite..." He sighed wistfully and stroked the white skin of the neck bending grotesquely from Edmund's collar, "I could have gained the strength to level this hell-hole to the ground."

An unforgiving chill blasted down Cain's spine as he caught sight of the split tongue forking out of Collin's mouth.

"Murderer," Cain breathed, praying with all of his might that any of this was a dream, or that the corpse was someone else, or that the dead could rise from their graves like Nos Feratu, "You killed-! You-" He couldn't speak, but quickly gained his feet, prepared to bolt into the shaded wood and scream for help.

Collins snorted, and suddenly seemed very amused by the entire thing, though still sweating profusely, so that deep stains marred the fabric beneath his arms and neckline.

"I had risibly little to do with this," he gestured to the sagging limbs and hanging head with a gleaming palm, "All I needed was his approval- or, should I say- his agreement to our terms?"

It was then Cain saw fit to recognize the sweat-smeared stains across Collin's front as blood, " Terms- Pevensie was- What was he, suicidal? He agreed to let you-"

Cain realized he couldn't voice Edmund's status out loud. Even in this absent wood, with no one but a corpse and two murderers, he couldn't confess to just what he may have been assisting all along.

"Ah. That," Collins allowed apologetically, "may have been written in too fine a print for young Mr. Pevensie to conclude."

His legs tingled, like a billion nerves were clicking on and off in rippling waves, the hairs standing parallel to the mossy grass swimming under his feet and drifts of that useless energy breezing up his spine to wing across the length of his arms. A warm fire boiling in the cold, metallic pot that had settled in his stomach. A welling surge of adrenaline and mindless fear loosed Jacobs' tongue and lended it a permit to speak it's own;

"_His brother won't let you live for much longer_."

"I can still kill _you_, Mr. Jacobs," Collins spat, though he didn't quite look up to it, from Jacobs' point of view, "But I think we've wasted enough time here." He smiled cordially, wide mouth stretching into a thin, ghastly smirk, "I will still extend an offer, if you so truly wish to escape this God-forsaken wasteland."

"I'm not that stupid!" Cain yelled, the pricking back, "Just what would accepting anything from you do for me? Are you planning on using me like you used him?"

"Your conduct is most dissapointing," Collins' mouth twitched, politely fighting off a smile, "But amusing nonetheless. How exactly do you intend to return home without my assistance? Haven't we worked together all along, Mr. Jacobs?"

Jacobs thought hard and furiously for a moment, then, momentarily defeated, delivered a select grouping of _very_ choice words to his Headmaster.

"We're quite stuck, Mr. Jacobs. We might as well get along."

Bored now, Collins loosed his hold so that one hand gripped the wrist of Edmund's arm and dragged along while Collin's circled to pool towards Cain, like some over-grown rag doll, "With the spell askew, I'll have to find a way to pass us onto the next world."

"I'm not helping you again," Cain swore, as Collin's raised his brow in a show of irony, "I mean it. Blackmail away you- _you quintuple-chinned freak_," a new wave of bravado seemed to seize him, "I'm taking Pevensie."

Collins laughed.

"Too precious, little one. But honestly, " the doughy cheeks bunched in smile laxed into waxy, blood-irritated bags of flesh beneath his hollowed and cold eyes, "Who do you think you're fooling? What is this new, improved Cain Jacobs that I see before me? Suddenly and surprisingly willing to risk everything for the boy he's been trying to beat all year. The boy he's had it in for since the first day of physical education class, all those months ago. Glaringly obvious in his hatred. Talking illy about him to anybody he met- even his dear Headmaster."

He actually made a little hissing noise, his bloody tongue flicking in displeasure out into the open and still air of the Wood.

"Ah, those _Pevensie brothers-! _We do despise the high and mighty, don't we Cain? What did those boys have that you didn't? Siblings? Friends? A father that loved them and a mother they could go home to? I suppose even your 'All Right' mother doesn't compare, eh? And your father-"

"-Step-father," Cain intoned, his vision tunneled.

"Oh, step-father. My apologies. You see, I sometimes forget how similar the two of us really are. Neither of our fathers actually cared if we ate, slept, or kept breathing, did they? Because nothing we did for them would ever matter. They were selfish creatures bent on only pleasing themselves with themselves and no one else could satisfy their expectations of their deluded and ego-centric worlds."

"My father loved us."

"Yes. That's why he told you he left, is it not? You mother wrote me as much. And your step father tells me you're a vicious liar, take after your old man. But you figured out the truth, didn't you? Using your friend Thomas Macintosh and his family's extensive research, you tied all the points together and got yourself a very pretty picture of what your _father _did, didn't you?"

"I told Thomas how we became friends," Cain said, but the words felt numb and shallow.

"How. But not _why_. You couldn't have found out any of that if you weren't close to Thomas and his family of Encyclopedia makers," Collins grinned, all of his gleaming white teeth flashing between two bloodstained lips,"You used your only friend like a marionette- and masterfully, I might add."

Cain stared at the pool, anger, sadness, regret, confusion, fear, sickness, wonder, and helpless calm mixing together in that boiling pot that had once claimed to be his stomach. Collins circled around him, dragging Edmund's flopping corpse behind him as he went, sometimes the patches of grass and the slant of the hill causing Edmund's body to turn onto its back. The whites of its eyes gleamed up at him like crecent moons, waning into the darkness of his clasped lashes. His free hand stiffly fingered through the blades of grass, parting green with combing digits.

As if, even in death, he was fighting to grab hold of life.

"You and I, Cain Jacobs," James Collins drawled, his breathing heavier and harsher than before, but his manipulations coming just as easily, "Are mirror images of each other. The only difference being that I have Power you cannot comprehend."

"...You mean Death?" Cain watched Edmund's lidded eyes, and realized the boy probably died with them closed: Collins didn't seem the type to close them out of respect, "You kill people. That's your power. You can't, say, get that tree over there to sing a song."

Collins stared impassively at him, ignoring the tree in question and merely looking at Cain with pending disgust at his train of thought, nothing at all like the man who pretended to be avuncular with unexpecting students.

"You can get a kid to do what you want when you threaten his family. You kill him when he doesn't do what you want. You can lie to adults. You can lie to your staff and the parents who let you have their children for the better part of a year. You sit in your huge chair, sipping tea and plotting the best way to twist a kid's mind around your little finger. Well, I can do that. I can do any of that, if I really wanted to."

Cain's mouth crushed to one side of his face, emotion nearly blinding him, anger and frustration and shock making him light-headed and heavy-limbed.

"I **don't** want to. I _want_ to go home. I _want_ to get Pevensie back to his brother so that he can get a proper funeral. I want to say I'm sorry to my mother. I want to tell off my father- _both _of them. I want to tell Thomas I'm sorry. I want to let him know he's kept me out of trouble in more ways than I can count and I owe him more than I can ever repay. And once I've made everything right in the best way I know how, I want to help Peter Pevensie and his family track you down _like the snake you are _and make sure the last thing you ever bite is the dust under your bodiless head."

Collins sighed, "So I presume you aren't going to help me willingly."

Cain braced his self to run... or to fight. The hairs on the back of his neck felt so electrified that they seemed to stand completely apart from his body. He swallowed.

"Your tongue. Did Pevensie Senior do that for you?"

The tongue flickered uneasily, already half-healed into two separate entities.

"I'm not so unreasonable to not give you a painless end, Mr. Jacobs," the Headmaster smirked, and raised one hand, stumbling drunkenly towards him with Edmund in tow-

And the Wood Between the Worlds trembled by the Lion's roar.

And Edmund blinked.

**

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**

A/N:

**HE LIVES!**

**I hated to have to give you all so much Cain and Collins without Ed or Peter. It's an OC overdose. But, some things were highlighted about Cain's anger issues, and in the next chapter, certain Wrongs are Made Right.**

**Also, I wanted to get it out there to you all that I'm thinking about quite a few different story ideas to put up after P.E is over.**

**These include: **

**A oneshot of a romantic comedy, starring Edmund Pevensie as a Lovestruck Teenage Boy and Lucy Pevensie as the Sister with Sense, also lending to Peter and Edmund's relationship as bro**

* * *

thers, so bromance fans will not be disappointed.

**A multichapter about how Peter and Edmund came to like each other as people, not only loving each other because they were brothers. (It's called "Monochrome" and I've been planning it since the ninth chapter of P.E.)**

**A multichapter AU about if Edmund had never been reclaimed from Jadis. (It's been done, I know. But not like this.)**

**And quite a few more. Til then, though, I'll work hard to get the next chapter up sooner, and to make each and every last one the best that it can possibly be for all the wonderful readers who have kept up with P.E for over a year. My best to you all. Make sure to leave a message or review if you have any comments, questions, concerns, or snarky remarks. Any and all of these will be read and used to craft this story to be the best that it can possibly be for its audience.**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

**

* * *

**

New Vocabulary:

**risible- **ridiculous

**avuncular- **of or like a kindly uncle

**opprobrious- **abusive


	27. Twenty Seven: Placid Eruption

**P.E**

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: Placid Eruption**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: I own Narnia, two dolphins, and the state of Wyoming.**

* * *

"_When a king sits on this throne to judge, he winnows out evil with his eyes," Proverbs 20:8_

* * *

_The tongue flickered uneasily, already half-healed into two separate entities._

_"I'm not so unreasonable to not give you a painless end, Mr. Jacobs," the Headmaster smirked, and raised one hand, stumbling drunkenly towards him with Edmund in tow-_

_And the Wood Between the Worlds trembled by the Lion's roar._

_And Edmund blinked._

**OoOoOoOoO**

Cain was entirely focused on the gargantuan lion that had appeared from literally nowhere to stand smack in front of the haggard party.

Easily bigger than a horse (maybe even a horse _barn_) the huge cat stood with its four pillar-legs planted at the four corners of its body. A whip-like tail swished with great agitation behind it, making whistling noises at it swept the still air of the Wood violently. Teeth the length of Bowies shot over black gummy lips and claws sickling over plate-sized paws pierced the loamy soil like tent stakes. Worst of all: its yellow eyes were trained right on Cain.

"_Holy-"_

The lion roared again- his massive, shaggy head yawning to the side and mane covering his throat vibrating like a billowing sea of African grasses; Cain flinched so harshly that he found himself hiding his face in his arms, bent down into the ground as far as he could go.

On his knees, he chanced a peek up through his fingers, still shaking horribly as he waited for the lion to make up its mind of what it intended for him. Maybe it had already ate? Maybe his tough, gamey consistency would be unappealing to it?

But no. It was looking to Collins now. Collins, and the boy he was holding up carelessly by one arm.

The lion licked its chops and settled back on its haunches, eyes never leaving the Headmaster, as though it was calculating something.

Collins was as well. His breathing was shallow, and he, too, bent at the spine, like preparing to sprint forward but trying to not move too suddenly all at once. His dark eyes were flicking to the lion's, to the body of Edmund, and back to the lion, a little, greasy sort of miser smile patching up the electrified silence. Cain fervently prayed Collins wouldn't try to use Pevensie as bait.

"Oh..." Collins murmured gently, cooing, to the lion, "You would be their darling 'Aslan', then, would you?"

Tawney eyes never left the Headmaster's face. The tail remained still in the lush, parted grass.

"And this!" Collins chuckled a little, hefting up the limp wrist he clung to, "This is your little king! Well, come and get him 'Great Lord'! Why don't you do anything to help him?"

And even when Cain thought that Collins had flipped his lid to think that the great cat would speak in turn, the name of Aslan stirred something in his memory. _Aslan.._. Hadn't he been the person Edmund and Peter had been speaking of all those weeks ago? When he overheard Edmund accepting that he was going to-

Cain gasped and clapped a hand over his mouth, burrowing stinging eyes into folded arms where he sat in the dirt, wanting to disappear into oblivion.

_'Edmund Pevensie is going to die.'_

_'Soon?'_

"You know, Jadis used to tell me about you," Collins was saying, slowing inching towards the razor-sharp teeth and steel claws. The frayed end of his tongue nervously stroked his upper lip, leaving a smudge of red.

"You and your special little nobles. The Kings!" Collins cried suddenly, puffing out his chest and nearly swaggering for a full step, "And Queens! of _Narnia_- foretold, _remember_. They had ballads sung about them before they ever even knew the flavour of Narnian air! Each praised for their deeds before the stupid Beasts so much as knew each child's _name!"_

The lion sat, broad and monumental. The man's rant did nothing to change him. He merely watched... as though waiting. The air and waters and wood fell from silence into a sort of breathless hush.

"I was to be crowned her Prince!" Collins bared his pitiful and bloodied teeth at porcelain fangs, thumping his heaving chest with a strong fist.

"**I** was to rule at Her side! Who are _you_ to overthrow such power? How dare _you_ combat such majesty using _bleached _and _polluted _children to hide behind! You can't even pull this brat from my hand! That world is Hers! Jadis is the Highest Queen in all of Narnia! Long live Jadis! Praise to Her Imperial Highness! _**Long live the Queen!" **_

His harsh and scraping scream dissipated against the lowest boughs of the trees and was absorbed into the silence of thick, grainy wood. His face was white, his hair flattened by sweat and blood streaming from the top of his balded dome. His eyes were wet and wild, furious and searching for escape. Meaty palms slicked against Pevensie's forearm, unable to retain their grip for another measure of time- any measure of time: Desperate.

And in this solemn, peaceful Wood, where the air did not stir alone nor the waters damp the garb of the Cosmic Travelers, where two children and a Witch had struggled so recently and long ago, a Father stood and claimed His son from Death's hands.

Lightning- the only thing in the world (maybe all the worlds) that could have been faster.

One moment, Collins was standing, eyes bulging, cheeks ruddy, wet and bloody and opening his mouth in preparation for a final scream, split tongue darting out-

-Then the Lion leaped!

Soaring over Cain's head and his hubcap forepaws thundering with the force of a freight train against Collin's ribs. Together they flew back, and the Lion rolled over once, off of the Headmaster just as the man hit the water. One weighted foot hovered over the man's sternum and pressed him down so that he was struggling wildly under the froth and foam of the boiling waters.

Steam and smoke rose from the pool- crackling with tenuous energy in the air above them. Still, the Lion held the man under, and though he raged and kicked and rolled and twisted for all he was worth, the waters still hissed and spat those ugly puffs of crackling smoke. A howling sound seemed to echo up from underwater, like a chorus of hellish sopranos, wailing their siren song in vengeful fury. Cain got the impression that if that large, golden paw hadn't been pressing down on them, something terrible would have followed those irascible, snap-hissing clouds above, and everything (and everyone) in the Wood would have been the subject of their wild indignation.

While the exorcising baptism continued, Cain's gaze had shifted nervously to where Pevensie lay sprawled in the grass on the edge of the fray. Looking between him and the raging pool, Cain hesitantly edged down the slight slope, emerald stains collecting on the black of his dress slacks and crushing sweet-smelling juices onto the toes of his polished Italian loafers.

As he reached Edmund's side, his hand's hesitated- first because he'd never touched a dead body before, and secondly because he saw that Edmund was staring back up at him.

And Edmund blinked.

"Holy-!" Cain fell backwards and landed hard on his rump, " Oh, my god- You're alive! You're alive! Pevensie- hey, Pevensie! Can't you hear me?" Because Edmund was blinking those big brown eyes, and his thin chest was rising, and Cain thought he could see the blue vein in his throat twitching with blood flow, but he had yet to respond to Cain's frantic questions or Collins' squealing screeches bombarding their ears, "All right. Okay. Maybe he did something. Paralyzed? Maybe. Maybe he did something to your voice- Here. Blink twice if you can understand me."

Edmund blinked once.

"Okay. All right. Okay- but you're alive. You're definitely alive. I just need to figure out- Oh, _god_ how'm I gonna figure this out?"

It was when his voice reached his own ears as clear as the gong of a church bell that Cain realized: _the wailing had stopped._

The pool was still, softly sizzling- pure white steam slowly drifting off the glass-flat surface and dancing around the kneeling figure of James Collins- who was drenched and steaming himself, mouth slack and eyes round with shell-shock. The angry hornet-mob cloud fizzling in the air above them spat little bits of greenish sparks at them all, twitching one way, then the next, clearly wanting to escape, and something in Cain's mind whispered its name, but he could hardly believe that he was looking at the embodiment of Dark Magic.

The Lion was standing in the water as well, and lifted His great head to the cloud, eyes whispering shut as He tilted up his muzzle and _blew._

At once a roaring wind exploded out of His mouth, and it struck the cloud with unforgiving judgment, blasting it into the dark sky above the tree tops, blowing, blowing, _going_ until it was seen no more- first a blob, then a dot, then gone for good. Lost in the endless sea of silent, guarding stars, it winked out as the universe swallowed it up, and the whole Wood relaxed its boughs with an audible sighing of its leaves, relieved to be rid of the nuisance.

"Cain Marshall Jacobs."

The Lion had noticed him.

Said boy gulped down the heart that was humming like a mouse's somewhere within his larynx, a squeak squeezing past the obtrusive lump and echoing mockingly around the glen, and he stayed by Pevensie's side with his face nearly hidden in the younger boy's shoulder. Divided, his mind was beginning to fall apart- unsure of whether to answer that awesome and terrible voice, or to roll into a ball and hope that being swallowed past those huge, gummy black lips was easier than traveling to other worlds.

Whispering padding and a thunder of step-like beats through Pevensie's ribs into Cain's buried face announced the rather frightful prospect that the Lion was moving towards him. He dared to peek- heart lurching unhappily when he realized that impressive pounding was merely the sound of the Lion's tail striking the earth, and again when his daring venture earned him the entrapment in a pair of massive golden irises crowning wise eyes with wonder and terror. The Lion- Aslan, Collins had called Him- spoke to him again.

"Son of Adam, do you, too, rebel against Me?"

Rebel against_ that_? Against those powerful jaws and even more impressive bite? His mother had always called him obstinate, but even Cain wasn't _that_ spectacularly daft. And if he was being given the option...

"No, sir, Aslan- sir."

Aslan's gaze was suddenly full of warmth and a steady sort of swell in Cain's gut, and he found himself sitting up with a tentative smile of his own.

"Peace," Aslan told him, and Cain knew that he was truly feeling it for the first time in his life. His muscles instantly relaxed, and his death grip of Pevensie's sleeve was released so that both hands sat at his sides. His heart felt oddly healthy, as though he could do anything, go to any lengths, and he would still have the will to do more. If he were in Hamilton's class right now, Cain thought in surprise, he'd run two miles instead of strolling one. That was, if Hamilton was still even alive...

"Edmund, My son," Aslan lowered His nose down to Pevensie's forehead and breathed gently outward, "_Jeistha._"

Amazed, Cain could only watch as a silvery gust of air fell from Aslan's lips, reluctantly letting go of its source to fall in a heavy mist ( a _soul_, that part of Cain's mind whispered persistently) upon Pevensie's chest, where it sank in through his dress jacket, and filled his lungs with air.

**OoOoOoOoO**

"_Awake, Dear One_," sang the Highest King from the heavens above me, "_I am with you_."

All at once I was alive. My body pulled in air- not gasping, but as if my time being dead had only been the briefest of pauses between last and my next. My heart lugged happily away in my neck and hands, my stomach and my legs. Feelings came back to me- despair, sadness, and regret among them- but these were hounded from my mind at the sweet scent that plugged my nose from all other scents- Of sunlight, mountain air, and wild honey.

"Edmund."

Golden flax and fiery eyes of summer lightning met my flickering gaze, and my name was blessed by His address.

"Aslan," I was smiling, and yet felt that I could fall back to sleep where I lay in the soft, plush grasses of Heaven, "I'm dead?"

Aslan gruffed a soft Lion laugh, "No, Dear One. You are in the Wood Between the Worlds."

I blinked, my newly woken mind sparking off a memory.

"The same Wood that the Professor spoke of?" I struggled to sit up; my limbs were quite stiff, like I'd been dragged through Hell and High Water. Aslan allowed me to lean on Him, and I tried to contain the wild and wondrous beating of my heart at His gentle touch, "Aslan... I _was _dead?"

"Yes."

"Then how-" I had to prevent myself from putting my foot in my mouth upon the very second I saw my Saviour again, "In England, people don't just come back from the dead."

Aslan only smiled with His knowing, Lion smile, as He waited for me to come to the correct conclusion.

"...But, then, I suppose this isn't England," I finished, feeling slightly triumphant at pulling out the loophole," After all, _You're_ here."

"I was always with you, My Son," the golden tufts of hairs wound loosely around my fingers shifted, and I chanced to look up, meeting the sad stare with remorse, "Why would you doubt that?"

"Aslan..." I had no excuse- there simply was none. And it felt like a Centaur had nailed me in the chest to remember how I had failed to trust that Aslan's word was enough to protect my brother. He, who had deemed _me _passable for the job. What kind of ungrateful brat was I to think that my few years as king was comparable to the eternity of majesty Aslan commanded?

"I'm sorry."

And how was that enough? Who did I think I was? My mind refocused on the detail that I still gripped the soft, glimmering fibers of lion mane, and I made to pull away, undeserving-

Aslan's paw covered my back and pulled me against His side, His warmth instantly engulfing every inch of me with helium-lightness. Head lowered to my ear, and He gently nuzzled the side of my head like a proud parent would to their child.

"Edmund, My Son, you will always have My forgiveness. Nothing you ever do will convince Me to leave you. _You are Mine._"

I threw my arms around His neck and held on for dear, dear life, for He _was_ my life, and my everything.

And He loved me.

I caught sight of Cain sitting stunned and speechless off to the side, jacket gone, vest muddy, blood on his pants, stains on his shoes, hair in disarray, hands limp in his lap, "Jacobs, what on earth are _you _doing in here?" What was _I _doing here, if I really though about it?

"Pevensie," Jacobs whispered after a few opening and closings of his mouth, "This is _anywhere_ but Earth."

Obviously.

"But how did you_-"_

"You both have questions yet to be answered," Aslan interrupted, standing and forcing me to tighten my hold so that I wouldn't slip off His side in an ungraceful heap on the grass, "Now is the time to collect them. Magician, I subject you to the judgment of King Edmund, the Just."

Collins- Jadis' most prized pawn- stared up at me, kneeling in mud, his arms pinned to his sides and face awash with surprise; I found myself standing with fists clenched, face cold and neck hot with wordless rage, one hand grasping for a sword that had probably been long destroyed. But I didn't care- anything would do to fight this- this _monster_ that knelt so cowardly before us!

"That's... that's not possible. I killed you. I made sure I had- But you can't be. You can't be. You aren't," Collins decided, as solid in his belief as the mire hardening around his folded legs, "You're not. You're dead. This just another trick. Just some more trickery, is all..."

"Aslan," I begged, turning back to my King, "Please tell me _what's going on _here!"

"Yes, please," Jacobs maundered from somewhere behind me.

He looked at me as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"I will tell you."

Then He reached forward to kiss my eyes, and administered a rough blessing upon them.

I Saw.

OoOoOoOoO

Doubtless, Peter has told of my first experience with my Gift. The first night- my first birthday in Narnia, when a faun had tried to kill us with poisoned drinks and I had Known his business before the mortal sip was taken from those spiked goblets. Doubtless he referenced the sheer panic that took hold of me, the mindless strength that seized him around the same time (both of which we later worked out were the first errant slips of our respective Gifts). Doubtless, dear readers, you have wondered what that was like.

Let me show you.

When next my eyes opened, the Wood was very much the same as when last I saw it- the same tall trunks leading skyward with little respect for gravity in the sheer strength of their boughs holding aloft such lush and full leaves, which netted closely together to excluded light or darkness to escape through their green-webbed canopy. Light filled the Wood, to be sure, but its source was from each tree, every pool, every blade of grass, and Aslan himself.

I turned to Collins.

He looked very much the way that Foible, the Faun, had when I had knocked the wine from his hands. Like then, I was tempted to shake with fear and scream like the child I was, horrified, disgusted by the perversion before my eyes.

Evil. His eyes, ears, mouth, his nose and skin, his very breath _oozed_ blackness. His pupils cried purple-night, his lungs exhaled smoke like chimney stacks at the old factories in Lower England, his mouth dripped a steady stream of tar through stained teeth. His jaw was still flapping up and down in disbelief, while he searched for words.

"You're dead. You're dead," Lies smoldered like fresh magma down his front, dribbling onto his chest and singeing the flesh over his heart, "I killed you!" he hissed the guilt-ridden confession, gravel crushing under his molars, the sound grating on my ears.

I stepped forward and he tried to move away- but the dried mud of the pool held him in place better than any fettering ball-in-chain.

My hand caught up his messy chin, wrenching it down to have a better look at his mouth as he gargled fearful curses, accusing me of being a vengeful spirit, begging me to not kill him, that Jadis still had a plan for him, that he could share his power with me if I would only help him to escape this terrible Wood-!

"Be still," I ordered, voice like steel, and I squinted at his tongue, which lolled around in the mire of his oral cavity. The Devil end of it danced like worms writhing for fresher soil. The cut was deep and neat and animalistic all at once.

"Peter," I said, my heart weighing down into the pit of my stomach and tears striking at my eyes, "Peter did this to you..." I craned Collin's head this way and that, calculating bruising and cuts, "He did this for me."

_Oh, Peter._

Collins whimpered pathetically at the mere mention of my brother's name and I felt disgusted anew with the proud narcissist who had so easily melted into this puddle of repining goo.

"Hush, it could have been much worse," sharply, my tone berated with an old power from a time before this, and I began to feel like myself more and more, "Trust me." Peter had been toying with him- a few cuts here, a split tongue there. He had wanted to draw out Collin's pain for as long as possible. He wanted revenge. My gut kicked up, startling my head as it realized: Peter had seen me _dead._ He had seen me as he'd only seen me in his nightmares and as he'd sworn he'd never let me be. He'd promised to save me and kill my murderer and in failing to do both- Where was my brother now? If Collins was here and Peter was missing...

"Where is he?" I asked the Magician, and against his will, he met my eyes and I saw-

_-BANG!-_

_-Bits of dust and dead fly wings-_

_-'Oh, why don't you run along, little king?'-_

_-A shuddering door-_

_-'Edmund and I have lots to do'-_

_-My own body, glassy whites and dead gray skin, waxed by death-_

_-KE-HE-HEH-HEH-HEH-HEH-HEH-HEHE!-_

_-Mad laughter chasing mindlessly, ravenously, wolfishly waiting and impatiently making a way to its prey-_

_-Fire like ribbons round the door and blanketing the books, embalming the shelves-_

_-'Jadis?'-_

_-A demon perched on his chest, beating him, eager to torture him and thoroughly enjoy it-_

_-'__**Peter-**__ was gone. Peter, you see, didn't exist after that. Peter was laying __**dead **__yards away with a hole punched through his stomach for the grass to worm through'-_

-_CLANG!-_

_-Transformation, escaping Hell to the freedom of cool Winter, tail lashing out and throwing the demon against glass, a magnificent crack reaching his ears-_

_-CLANG!-_

_-Arms tackling his middle-_

_-CLANG!-_

_-Failure-_

Collins shook in my grip when I my eyelids fell heavily shut, wetness pushed over the edge of my lashes, leaving a cold trail in its wake down the sides of my face. Fiercely, I rubbed at them with my sleeve.

"Pevensie?" Jacobs warily approached from the side not filled by Aslan, though he steered as clear from Collins as he possibly could.

I still felt Aslan's gaze on me, and pulled in a starved breath, placing both hands on Collin's trembling shoulders as I shook my head vehemently, opened my eyes, and dove back in;

Collin's dark eyes locked with mine, and I fell back through them, deeper into his past. Farther into his reasoning for all the threats and lies and attempts that had led him to endangering my family's lives. I pushed until I was seeing him as my own age, until I couldn't find the line between his mistakes and my own. I followed each decision on that slippery path, traced every moment with Her, every moment without. His littlest white fibs to his most illegal and murderous activities. I careened with him into blackness, and watched the blindness begin to fill my own eyes as I sat across from him at that table in the early spring of 1944. I watched my own sins entice him to continue. I watched him kill me.

And I could not condemn him.

"Pevensie? Hey- Edmund!"

I blinked.

Jacobs stood, now shaking my shoulder with his hand, beside Aslan on my right side. I blinked again, the fluttering my chest stilling into a distant patter of wings against the inner workings of my heart. I broke my hold on Collins and gained my feet, stepping with pins in my legs out of the spoiled waters.

"Son of Adam?"

There was a pause, and in it I made one of the hardest decisions of my life. I wanted revenge, but was it my place? I wanted Collins to die, but who had proved to control Death? I wanted him to be hurt for hurting my family and for hurting _me, _but hadn't his own life ruined him enough? Hadn't Peter already so viciously marked him for the deed? I wanted to be selfish, but wasn't that the action that nearly killed everything I held dear the first time round?

I wanted to avenge: I was not named so.

"I cannot judge a man who committed the same crimes _for the same reasons..._ as I."

Oh! And how light did I feel to finally own up to that truest of truths-

The only reason that I could still stand and breathe was for the mercy of my Lord and King, after all. I had sold my family out for unsure promises of revenge on them, and they had been chased across a country by wolves, nearly drowned, forced into a battle that revolutionized all fighting in Narnia from there on in, and had only led to our victory when Aslan, not I, had sacrificed Himself to save us. If I had died on that battlefield, or even long before that, Aslan still would have been there, and Narnia still would have overcome the White Witch. My role, I was realizing, was much smaller than I wanted to believe.

Collins was still shivering as he knelt, miserable and weakening with every moment in this pure realm, and I softly knew, "I deserve the same as him."

I turned to Aslan, "He is Yours to do with as You will, my King. I only beg my King to rid this man of his Dark Magic, which is something no one should command."

My heart had never felt lighter, than when Aslan was making the calls.

"It is finished," Aslan spoke, and it was so, "James Collins, you will return to England at the mercy of your peers."

The Wood shifted nervously as Aslan aimed twin spheres of fire down at the water-logged ex-magician, His power loudly emanating from every centimeter of His being. His voice seemed to magnify around us, and the silence of the connector-world hushed to a periphery annoyance, "Be thankful one such as King Edmund was named your judge, for any one of his family may have gladly shown you your end."

Collins moaned insensibly into his wallowing mud, truly pathetic and without an inch of any such gratitude. Aslan hardly seemed as though He expected any better of him.

"Now, Sons of Adam," Aslan swung His head to look at me and Jacobs, smiling with pride on us both, "It is time you returned to your world."

And, even though He didn't say it, I'm sure Aslan knew what I would hear:

It was time I returned to my family.

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**A/N: **

**Next chapter is a major reconciliation, with Peter and Lucy and Susan and all the OC's. Plus, we'll be given the full story of how Collins got involved with Jadis, and just what sort of role he palyed before become a Magician. Look for it in Chapter Twenty-Eight: Peter's Edmund.**

**Questions on confusing moments? Comments on a passage? Find any grammar or spelling mistakes? Looking forward to "Voyage of the Dawn Treader"? Review! Communication with the readers is a sure-fire way to make this story's final chapters the best and clearest that they can possibly be.**

**Thank you all for reading! **

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

**New Vocabulary:**

**irascible- hot tempered**

**maunder- talk dreamily, or in a rambling state**

**repine- fret, be discontented**


	28. Twenty Eight: Peter's Edmund

**P.E**

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Peter's Edmund**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: Owning an extra set of four kids would be a hassle. I just nip over to Uncle Jack's to borrow them from time-to-time.**

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**_"He asked life from You, and you gave it to him- Length of days forever and ever," Psalms 21:4_

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_"Now, Sons of Adam," Aslan swung His head to look at me and Jacobs, smiling with pride on us both, "It is time you returned to your world."_

_And, even though He didn't say it, I'm sure Aslan knew what I would hear:_

_It was time I returned to my family._

**OoOoOoOoO**

Lucy Pevensie could no longer believe that Edmund was alive after she had found Peter.

Following the encounter with Mother Renee and finding out the latest in an increasingly disturbing round of events, the young girl had gained her feet and bolted down the halls of Hartbee's School for Young Men. James Collins had been dead for twenty years? And she discovered this just as her brothers were separated, one possibly in danger and the other possibly insane? The Mother may have called after her, and Lucy may have felt some apprehension about diving headlong into a battle where she was emotionally compromised, but she would not stop now. Who could, with Narnian blood was pumping hot and red through their veins? It was Narnian courage that pushed her on, Narnian faith tugged her toward the overwhelming stench of smoke and burning wood.

She'd rounded corner after corner, becoming sick of Gothic arches and the frightening gargoyles that roosted around every turn, their hideous fangs grinning sickly up at her. She was going to rip the head off of the next one she saw- her second knife was molding the flesh of her right palm with intricate leather swirls from the handle's grip.

But no stone imp had greeted her final turn- instead there was a roaring monster of fire that was leaping out of a large, wooden doorway.

Imagine the young Queen's surprise to see the Headmaster's office ablaze! In some ways it both thrilled her by its show of power, in other ways it terrified her by the knowledge that her brothers might be feeding that very fire as she looked on; Flames like sharp teeth dragged at the frame, slipping off of the stone that began where the wood ended as something- _Cool, fresh, filling- _was steadily tugging it down and away into the smoking room. Great clouds of gray plumed like pillars, and from the hall Lucy could hear a clap of distant lightning, a roll of thunder. She knew, without doubting, that this was where she would find Peter.

_CRASH! RUMBLE!_

Something had hissed in the room- a sputtering hiss like the sound of butter in a hot pan.

_Sssssss...!_

A battering whip of icy winter wind struck through the door and smacked the young Queen in the face. It threw back her hair, it tossed around her skirt, shoved at her limbs, and it consumed her in cold, cold, _cold _until the groaning of the frozen devils echoed back to her from the hellish halls of Hartbee's.

_The storm was putting out the fire._

But Lucy wasn't stupid. She had grown up with Magic. A Deep Magic. The sort that didn't require special words or wands or whatever else people got into their head was needed. Certainly, she had spoken in the very tongue of Aslan himself- the Old Narnian. The Old Language that Aslan had used to sing the world of Narnia into being. With her brothers she had slaved over the texts in the heart of the Library, studying, memorizing, and applying all that she knew of it to her life. Each day, with the Old Language filling her mind a little more, flashing into her thoughts a little sooner, Lucy grew to be Valiant. And Edmund was Just. And Peter was Magnificent.

And Susan never bothered.

Lucy wrestled that thought away and watched as the flames in the doorway guttered, spitting smoke and ash. Soon only a vague crackle could be heard from within the room. All that had been burning was quenched and smothered by a fierce wind and drenching spray that was somehow entering the school from the outside blizzard. Many would call convenient impossibility, but few could name it Aslan as Lucy did then.

The fire had died and the smoke filled ceiling and tile with gaseous tar. It coated Lucy in dirt as she covered her face with her sleeve and ran through, one hand thrown out to ward off a collision in the winding darkness. She clambered over an old, blackened bench beyond the first doorway, gagging at the scent of a burning body behind the secretary's table, and using only flashes of lightning to coordinate her surroundings. Splitting cracks of jetting light flashed brilliantly from the far end of the office, revealing the entire battlefield one second at a time.

Blood flaked on lamps and papers, pooled on the wooden floor and around the small red sofa, caked the front panel of the impressive and thoroughly scorched desk, and smeared the broken window pane above it. This was all steadily being hidden behind mounds of pure-white snow. Fresh white covered dull red and singed brown and charcoal black. Through the opened window the outside blizzard _continued_ to gust downy snow through over the room's possessions, globes and books, paintings and bottled ships, and onto Peter's bloody head.

When Lucy had first entered the scene, she had thought Peter was dead- seeing him lay so still and so defeated on the ground behind the desk, the only part of him visible being his long legs stretched out. His head bled freely, every inch of exposed flesh covered in hideously puffed blisters and serious burns. She'd run around the smoldering desk, where snow had smothered the flames and put out most of the room, and heaved her brother to a sitting position with a wild burst of adrenaline, careful to only touch him where his skin was covered.

"Peter!"

His eyes had burst open to look at her, her heart breaking as the sky blue iris lit first with recognition-

And then hooded with disappointment.

It was not she that Peter had been hoping to see; he had not forced open his eyes for her sake. He had opened them for someone else. Someone who's missing presence swamped the Queen in heavy panic.

"_Lucy_..." Peter had managed, and she hoped that he would never utter her name again. Whether by smoke or by something else entirely, it was too terrible a sound for the girl to hear.

She tugged his wrist uselessly, not surprised when his muscles remained slack and not heeding to her urgent plea.

Lucy was left with no delusions concerning their brother's fate; such an open and raw wound wasn't the sort that ever closed. Now part of Peter was ruined- missing. He wasn't ever going to be the same. She would have to mourn for two brothers, in the stead of one.

'_Once more, Dearest,'_ had become the latest mantra of Lucy Pevensie's drumming heart, and she desperately tugged again at her oldest brother's limp wrist. The girl was nearly crying with frustration while he looked unresponsively at her left Mary-Jane, his blue eyes marred with waxy despair. Snow billowed around them, mixing with ash in a silent dance, watching curiously as these two pathetic beings struggled to move as freely as they did.

"Peter- Peter, _please!"_

His hand was large and heavy in her own, slightly dry and a little calloused in some places and moist with open skin in others, but because it was attached to an even heavier, muscled arm, it was nearly impossible for the young woman to lift. Slipping through her hold, the hand thumped against the blackened edges of the office rug, some of the soot marring it with powdery ash.

"Peter, _you have to get up_...Peter, please, we can't stay here."

Neither a blink nor a flicker- Lucy bit her lip and closed her eyes. With a spray of dust and soot, she fell to her knees in supplication, wrapping her slight arms around the strength of her brother's neck as she leaned against the blood, sweat, and dirt that bathed him. She breathed in search of that scent that was simply _their Peter_...

"Peter, please come back," she whispered into the once-white collar of his shirt, and stroked his hair gently, avoiding the tacky lump, invasive and rising beneath the broken skin of his temporal plate. Based on the size, the once-Healer had surmised that it marked where he had struck the office window, breaking it wide open to the elements. His mismatched pupils confirmed it.

She moved to sit by his side, tugging his head down to rest below her chin, and he automatically folded there, not offering the comfort of "Everything's going to be all right," but glaring down the blood-spatter her foot had been covering. Lips numb, slightly agape, arms falling in willowing bands around her form, a pathetic veil, a mockery of _her Peter's_ embrace. Of _her brother's _protection. But maybe now, after everything, this would be all of Peter she'd ever have again: only shapeless, motionless, lifeless flesh.

_'Once more, Dearest.'_

Lucy let out the sigh that was crushing her lungs (clogging her throat and burning her eyes) to swallow down another gulp, preparing for the next try.

"Peter. Peter, we still have Susan to protect," but as hard as she was trying, her bravery was as thin as the icy air stinging her face through a warped and broken window that should have been whole, "Peter-"

Winter air stirred up the ashes, and his sky-blue eyes, though clouded gray with debris did not blink to clear them.

"_Lucy_..." he said again, in that same terrible voice, and his withered breathing was poison against her clenched throat.

A wave of terrifyingly powerful rage tore into her head with wordless heat, and Lucy almost threw her brother away from her side, almost spurned him completely. She was ready to scream nonsense until her throat bled and to wail like a keening Hag until she was just as twisted, and _to mourn_, but first to_ blame_- Blame Peter, blame Edmund,_ blame Aslan, _because how_ dare _He promise her safety and then take _her brothers _from her after _months_ of worrying and agonizing over_ having faith_, and maybe Susan was_ right _because what kind of loving King _did that _to his_ children-?_

_"__**Aslan**__..!"_and though there were no words to express her distress, Lucy knew that something was interceding on her behalf, explaining without words the turmoil of her weeping heart.

_'Once more, Daughter of Eve.'_

Lucy sobbed out a gasp into her brother's neck, wetting his matted front with her tears. He did not even know to comfort her. He barely knew to continue breathing.

_'Stand, my Warrior Queen.'_

The Valiant thought wildly for a moment, trying to invent some way to stand up with the full weight of her High King upon her. It was too much; there was no way that she could support him. She was too weak, too young, too-

"Peter! _Peter!"_

The not-so-distant yell made Lucy startle where she sat, and for a moment she could not make her own mouth respond. Then it came again through the dancing snow and glaring embers, louder and more glorious than ever:

"_PETER!"_

A warm Spring breath thawed her frozen voice and she screamed as loudly as she could-

_"__**Here! Edmund, we're in HERE-!**__"_

**OoOoOoOoO**

There was the sensation of being ripped through the eye of a needle and the edges of my mind and body scraping through cold iron, a violent torsion that turned me inside-out and outside-in, and then I was falling forwards onto cool tile, bones jarring on impact. My limbs, greatly weakened from atrophy, were like water beneath me; and so I collapsed onto the ground, taking a moment to breathe and accept my surroundings.

I was in the office wing of Hartbee's. The windows lining the stone walls were black with night, and ghostly flurries passed by them in racing drifts. The smell of smoke and the cold nip of winter wind mixed in a sort of hazy chaos around the hall. I could barely see the ground beneath me through the mix of gray wisps and canvassing darkness. That set off alarms bells in my mind almost immediately.

But what had happened to the fire? Didn't time pass differently between worlds? I'd only been gone for a few seconds, hadn't I?

A patch of swirling air flickered tremulously and then my companion crashed to earth beside me, imprecations heralding his arrival.

"_Mother of God-!" _Cain Jacobs fell face-first onto the floor, instantly flipping to a seated position and tenderly checking his nose with ginger fingers as he continued to curse.

"All right?" I asked with my cheek resting on smooth stone, and made no move to right myself. Even now my muscles throbbed as blood worked back through them, my bones shivered at the thought of supporting my weight. It was... a good sort of pain. An "at least I'm alive" sort of pain. And the thought that only moments ago I had been held in the paws of _Aslan...! _

My skin quivered with delight.

"I feel like month-old pudding," Cain snapped at me, which really meant that he was fine, "You going to lay there all day?"

"I have to find Peter," I steeled myself with a deep breath and carefully pushed up, grateful when Cain reached forward to aid me, "He was in trouble before we reached the Wood." _How long had the fire been out? How long had Peter been _in _the fire? _

Cain scowled and looked around, "Speaking of which- where'd that slimy reptile creep off to? And the Lion. I don't see Him either."

"Aslan is taking care of Collins."

"Are you sure-_"_

I looked at him, and Cain seemed to be bashfully subdued by something in my face.

"_Aslan's taking care of him_," I repeated firmly, "Help me up."

Cain guided my arm around his neck and reached behind me to support my left elbow, slowly walking towards the thickest part of the smoke and wind. I tugged a filthy rusted handkerchief from my trouser pocket and covered my mouth and nostrils with it.

Sadly, it did nothing to shield my burning eyes. Even before the smoke had swept over them, they had ached from diving so far back into the past. My Sight into Collins' actions had shown me all that the madman had witnessed. Through his own eyes I had observed the unnatural unraveling of his mind. Everything from killing his own father with a milk bottle to conjuring the curses that would stop my heart and release my soul.

But the only thing I could see now was that flickering image of my beloved High King, lightly flying, heavily crashing the base of his skull against the unforgiving glass. Foreign blood tracing his contorted face; starved fire nursing on his blistering flesh-

_-Had Peter been trapped in that room the entire time?_

A mighty thrill jerked at my heart, thundering with need, and then I was pulling Cain along behind, limping as quickly as I could towards the chaos of elements. Cain was hard-pressed to keep up with me. Ahead, I made out the mottled form of what was once a majestic door frame, the etchings long wiped from it by flames. I called out to my brother with such alarming volume that Cain jumped, jostling the both of us:

"Peter! _Peter!" _

But the snap-hiss of squealing wood was my only reply and my thirst was renewed to merely _see him_-!

Worry and pain prompted me to hurry before I collapsed and was of no further use. Before the stupidity of my actions killed my dearest family-

"_PETER!" _I bellowed.

_"__**Here! Edmund, we're in HERE-!**__"_ Lucy's voice cut through the flying debris like a Gryphon's cry, and my efforts to claw my way to her doubled.

Smoke blackened my make-shift mask, persistent twirls of debris coating my lungs in irritating clamor as I stumbled with Cain into the waiting room, where the black smog was thickest. The remains of a bench blocked the entrance to the main office, which was bathed in a stubborn glow of embers. Cold wind wound through the stifling heat and chilled me, it pushed plumes of smoke from the opening of the second door like the drawing of curtains, whispering as it ushered me forwards.

Over the bench I gingerly clambered, acknowledging the tempered heat that radiated out of the wood and into my palms, their soot transferred onto my skin, clothes, shoes, and anything else that brushed it. Cain was guiding me from behind, and small hands reached forward to steady me from the front, so familiar and blessed that I instantly tugged their owner to my chest, kissing her soundly on her tear-tracked cheeks.

"Lucy- _Aslan_- Lucy, you're all right?" I pushed her far enough away to brush at her sweaty bangs. The soot on my hands left black smudges on her skin, "How on earth did you get here? You're not hurt, are you?"

Thank Aslan, it was not so! In the darkness I could tell that her eyes red from irritation and emotion, face made ethereal from the hot glow of dying embers, tears like glowing stars, and all else in shadow.

She burst into a tearful snort-like hiccup and bowled into my arms, clasping me tightly around my middle, "I can't believe you're still alive, Edmund Pevensie!"

My heart faltered a little in my chest, and I kissed her forehead twice.

_Bless this girl, bless this Queen, bless this sister that is my own!_

"Me either," I replied, when I had found my voice and squeezed her hands, "Where's-?"

_CRASH! _Lightning illuminated the entire room to carnage and destruction, and I caught a glimpse of tarnished gold, clouded blue, a black suit ashen with mourning. The person propped up behind that obtrusive desk was not my king or ruler injured; it was my brother torn into messy halves.

"Oh, Peter," I whispered, already making my way towards him, my own injury momentarily lifted at the sight of him. I knelt carefully in front of his lost gaze, barely sensing the hovering form of Lucy to my right, "Peter-"

He stared at my jacket tie without seeing it. Blistering swells of cooked skin raised up over any and all flesh that I could see. His hands were the worst- raw and red and damp from and entirely missing their epidermis. I placed my hands on either side of his jaw and leaned up to kiss his brow, resting my forehead briefly against his and closing my eyes in relief to find him breathing, if a little shallowly. Pressed to me, his skin gave off heat like water through a sieve. I pulled away once more, trying to capture his eyes with my own.

"_Cornar...Mo provis?"_

His eyes shifted, as though startled, but they never made it above my chin, and my stomach twisted in on itself.

"_Where are- What?" _he muttered, and calmed again as I clamped my hand around the back of his wet neck, squeezing a little. Then, "_Ed...?"_

"I'm here, Peter," I assured him, worry mounting. _He did this for me..._

"Just breathe with me, all right?"

"_Ed?" _Trembling and frightening, his voice made me begin to wish I'd done something far less just to the Snake responsible. My mouth pursed shut and my eyes blinked back icy wind as I prayed that Aslan would never let Collins come near my family again.

"He's concussed," Lucy told me softly, shuffling closer to Peter's side and gently tilting his head so that I could see the impressive knot swelling up on the base of his skull and the blood that streamed out of it, "I wanted to put some of the snow on it, but I think it needs to be cleaned out first. Besides, if I were to hurt him and he were still..." Lucy bit her lower lip and gnawed a bit on it, "And I'm not sure- In this state he might be- He might not be himself."

I nodded slowly, caught up in the blackness of my brother's sight. My sister was worried it would be the Other Peter that would wake. Logical, considering the state he was in, and that she thought he was like that from keeping me alive. But I knew my brother better than I knew myself, and it was no stranger that was searching the ashes for me.

"No," I assured her, "It'll be Peter. This is Peter." My fingers twitched, wanting to shake him and prove it to her. _Wake up, mo Provis!_

She nodded slowly, thinking quickly as she stroked bloodied strings of hair from his face, smoothing her thumb over his filthy cheekbones. She had yet to ask how we had escaped certain death, as I knew she was bursting to do. Instead she was taking care of what she could take care of, willing to wait for the details until later. Objective and loving all at once, the shadows of the room sharpened her baby fat until she was a young woman, charged with the mighty and wonderful task of helping those who needed her, "I need help getting him back to the medical bay. He's too heavy for me to lift- I already tried."

It was such a glimpse of my sister during our Golden years that I smiled wryly, and Lucy caught my expression with a wary look of her own, "What's the matter?"

"You're amazing, Lu," I told her earnestly, and I thought the red in her cheeks might have been from more than winter air kissing her skin.

"I'm not sure if I can help carry both of you," Cain spoke from behind us. I tensed, because I had forgotten he was there, and turned enough to catch the dubious fit to his jaw, "I mean-" He met my eyes and dropped his again, "I mean, I could_ try_-"

"You'll have to," I said, not unkindly, just as Lucy asked, "What do you mean _'both of you?'"_

"He hurt his back again," Cain answered, bulldozing my own answer of "Nothing, Lu, don't worry."

"He what?" Before I knew it, Lucy had grabbed hold of me, her fingers surely pressing down on each of my vertebrae until I yelped and sucked in my breath with a burning hiss.

"Ow! Lucy-!"

"_Ed?" _Peter whispered frantically, his hand hovering above the ash, jittering to find a perch, "_Ed?"_

I locked hands with him, ignoring the squelch of blood between our palms, "I'm here, Peter. _It's finished_."

Like a spell was cast, all that made my brother relaxed, and his eyelids dipped down, finally closing as he released a strident sigh.

"How are you even able to move?" my Queen demanded, and continued pressing around the spot with practiced movements, "Something like this should leave you completely paralyzed."

When I made no reply she suddenly ceased her ministrations. Then, slowly leaning closer and gently pressing her nose against the torn shoulder of my suit, she inhaled. My heart sank as she pulled away again, looking up at me with wide and frightened eyes. Her fingers gripped the cloth of my shirt with white knuckles, her face just as colorless. Without even saying a word, I knew what she had smelled- _Whom_ she had smelled- on my clothing. Cain smelled like it, too. The smell of sunlight, wild mountain air, and sweet honey was hard to mask with a little smoke.

"Edmund..." she swallowed, joy and terror mixing in her delicate features.

I smiled and kissed her cheek again, "Later, Lu. I promise I'll explain later."

Thank Aslan, there would be a later for all of us.

"Now, let's get out of this blasted office; I'm sick to death of it."

**OoOoOoOoO**

There had been ravaging fire, and with it came the razing snow. A blistering heat and a blackening cold. Such extremes killed both man and beast. Such extremes, therefore, had killed me.

Whatever I had become- whatever I _became_- when I battled for my brother was not immune to death. It was a hideous and twisted imitation of humanity. It thought and it felt. It breathed and it spoke. By all logic, it was me. I often believed that it may have been _more_ me than the one that ruled as High King. I cannot tell you how long it has been in my heart. Perhaps I have always been like this. Perhaps I have always had that mere, glass window between sweet, lovable, gentle Peter, and the Peter that felt perverse joy at torturing his enemies. He was the Hyde to my Jekyll, but we both had the same goal: Be for your family.

My family, therefore, was his family. He saw my sisters as his sisters. My brother as his brother.

In fact, my brother seemed the deciding factor in when Insanity reared its ugly head. When the White Witch had run him through, and he had fallen limply to the blood-damp grass, I snapped completely for the very first time. I barely remember what our brief battle had been like, only waking when faced by Aslan Himself, and when He opened His mouth and released me from madness;

_It is finished..._

And it was finished. But it wasn't done. My next gruesome battle- the Battle of the North-West- was when we fought the Ogres encroaching on our borders. Once more, my brother was endangered, almost eaten, and whatever fragile sanity I had built up had been ground into dust under my own heel. I know nothing at all of that death match. All I remember is coming-to, on a hillside painted with guts, bones, and skin, and I had known that it was my doing.

_Jeistha, mo provis...Jeistha..._

My brother had been there in time to see me emerge, to see Insanity smile and burrow back beneath my thoughts, to be the water granted to a dying man, to meld dust and water and leave me to be reshaped into something better.

_A man without his shadow is a man without a soul._

Without a just and loving brother, without a just and loving King above all kings of Narnia, I was a soulless, thoughtless beast. I may have spoken, but what was I saying? What was I good for, except for death?

The third time I had lost my mind was when I knew that my brother had given his life for mine. I had not lost control since Narnia. I had taught myself to cling to the Sanity Aslan granted me. That was my Gift. I cherished it. I used it to win victories for Narnia even when my fellow king had fallen in battle. As long as I wanted His grace, His Gift, I had to have faith that what Aslan planned was good- was perfect.

I had lost faith in front of that hideous office door. I had snapped and frenzied and panicked because my brother was dying- _was dead_- and I had done nothing to stop it. It was not a random act. It had been planned for a long time. My brother had been expecting it, and still, he had pressed on. I could not bear the thought of my only brother putting himself on death-row for me. I could not bear to think it was my fault. I could not bear to believe that a dead brother was good or perfect. I wanted my brother. I killed Peter to let Madness reign.

I still lost him.

Before the clock had struck its third and final bell, I had denied Aslan a third time.

I was defeated; my Insanity was power and inhuman strength but was also brittle. I was defeated and cheated and I lay quietly beneath fire and water and prayed for an end. To die in ashes that my brother might be reborn of them. What was I good for, but for death? I had been so close- so cold. So still and so very empty.

But now there was only unfaltering warmth.

_Shhhhhhhhhhhrk!_

Before I was ready, my eyes opened, and I watched a flurry of paper snow leave his hands and drift quiescently to the granite floor. A white pile lay there, soft and delicate, pieces stirring and fluttering away from their nest as a cross breeze from the opened door drove them away. His dark eyes were locked on the ceiling far above, glazed with boredom, not anything else. His mouth was not slack, instead settled into a tugging, thinking frown. Deft and supple fingers twisting around each other, tightening with the twitching muscles of his forearms, another soft and sarcastic _shhhhhhhhhrk!_ of ripping paper preventing the quiet of the room. He let another paper snowflake fall to the ground, where it joined its brothers in calm, peaceful reunion.

He shifted, kicking out one long leg to push himself farther up on the bed he sat on, the rustling of sheets and creaking of bed-springs replacing the tearing until he'd repositioned himself as he liked. An almost smug smile turned up a single corner of his mouth, lifting enough to reflect light from his gleaming canine. His clothes were no longer the black suit, but a white nightshirt and brown pajama pants. Bare toes bent in a nameless beat, pink and flushed with pumping blood.

Across his skin fiery red crossed with bland white- cuts and scabbed marks covered with white butterfly stitches. His lip was split, as it always managed to be, and he looked so _happy_ that I believed this version of him might have been from another time, in a different world. Beside him lay books- opened and closed. Folded at the spine and dog-eared. Thick and thin. Fictional and factual. Atop a thick copy of the _Macintosh Encyclopedia _was a pile of white paper that he reached for when his fingers finished off the last and a healthy mound of flakes built up by his bed. He hummed as he ripped them into little bits, a familiar tune that was far too Narnian to be anything but Aslan's Anthem. By the time he was done with the paper and the song, a knock sounded on the door and his gaze flew up.

"Lucy- How's she doing?" An earnestness filled his eyes, a carefulness measured his words. Love was in his very presence as the small girl stepped gracefully to the nearest side of his bed and sat by his side, rolling him a little so that she could prod her fingers down his back. It was laid bare for me to see- white and black and blue and covered in creamy bandages with brown paste. She payed special attention to his lumbar vertebrae, a little more gentle with her touch.

Feathering fingers skittered along the prominent ridges of his spine, betraying the surety of their owner's knowledge in a way her response did not, "She'll be back to her old self soon. I think whatever curse that man let loose played with her mind."

"He said it got rid of our Gifts," his voice was pitched low with respect, his shoulders as readable to me as his very face, "But he can't actually take anything we aren't willing to give away."

Lucy paused a little, but pulled his shirt back down and helped him rest against the headboard again, "She'll come back to Him. Her Gift won't let her do otherwise, will it?"

"Aslan willing," he said, as she turned him to lie on his back once more.

His eyes closed and his body stilled and I exploded upwards, a cry ripping at my unused throat.

"_NO-!"_

Staggering pain erupted from my head, filling my vision with white, but I stubbornly kept to my feet, stumbling in the direction I had last seen my brother, stiffened hands outstretched to capture that last vision of him, lying on a bed and ripping up those stupid sheets of plain paper to occupy his clever and working mind-

_"Peter!" _A grip so strong I fell into it, wrapping my arms around his chest and burying my ear into his heartbeat, willing mine to settle so that I could hear the sound of his life over the sound of thunderous galloping in my head, "You idiot! What do you think you're doing? The doctor said to stay in bed!"

I may have given up my Gift before, but I wasn't willing to let go of it ever again.

I was squeezing him tighter with every second, every single muscle in my body working to keep a strong hold on him until the white faded from my vision and I could confirm everything with one more look at that dear face, scowling like only he could. Tighter and tighter like the building, shrilling whistle in my head that was squeezing my eyes until they felt that they would pop out of my skull and my head would implode on my own shoulders. Fighting off oblivion by holding onto my brother.

My Edmund.

**OoOoOoOoO**

Everything was worried fluttering and anxious footsteps. By the time Lucy had called in the reinforcements of Cain and Thomas, Peter had half-collapsed onto his brother, who was holding him up from sliding to the tile floor with a fierce and exasperated look dangerously sketched onto his countenance.

"Idiot!" Edmund growled again, pulling his older brother closer against him and pinning him against his chest with a set jaw buried in the slumping boy's shoulder, "Who told you to get up in the first place? What if you'd fallen and smacked your head on this floor, eh? You didn't even think of that, did you?"

Thomas might have thought the older boy had mumbled something, but no one, not even Edmund, seemed to understand the slurred garbling. Together, Thomas and Cain lifted the elder Pevensie up, minding his bandaged head, and making as if to move him back to his cot. Peter sensed this and moaned, stirring enough to flimsily shove at them with his mummified hands.

"Easy, mate," Thomas said soothingly, "You've had a rough night."

Peter moaned again, a sound so weak and desperate that the two boys supporting him felt strangely and incredibly guilty.

Cain grit his teeth, "Come on, Pevensie. Gotta get you back to your own-"

"-No, don't bother," Edmund told his peers, still furious, "He made it this far, might as well let him stay. Lucy- help me move over, will you?"

But then there was the issue of fitting two large teenage boys onto the same bed. It was touch-and-go until Lucy smartly suggested they push the two cots together, and Edmund held his brother against him until Peter had enough space to be pushed carefully off to the side, still keeping their hands locked in a warrior's brace. Peter's eyes struggled back open at intervals, focusing on his little brother only long enough for Edmund to feel the weight of his gaze and smile in return before they fell shut again. His frantic breaths had slowed to something far more ordered, face relaxed beneath an intense binding of bandages around his head and face. Edmund looked up at his classmates, who were watching the brothers interact with curious eyes.

"You don't say anything," the king said flatly, "To _anyone_."

Cain held up his hands defensively and Thomas nodded with an awestruck look blanketing his features.

Decisive as ever, Edmund promptly ignored them and turned as much as he could to face his brother, stroking blond hairs from fluttering eyes and murmuring softly in the Old Language. He was smugly pleased as Peter began to nod off, pressed against his little brother's side.

After that Susan was guided into the room by the good Mother Renee, and the four Pevensies lay in a messy pile both above and below the sheets, a single body of quiet hand-holding and temple-kisses that was soon left to rest alone while everyone else respectfully left the room. The Mother returned to her task of calling parents and keeping tabs of Mr. Hamilton's status at the hospital. Cain and Thomas returned to their respective families, their friendship already repaired, and their bodies prepared to sleep on the poorest of beds.

The coterie of Narnians slept well and warm until the dawn of the next day, mindful of each other's injuries even in slumber.

**OoOoOoOoO**

Open bay windows glowed with yellow sunlight, dancing specks of dust sparking in the warm rays. The high ceilings and pale walls were awash with nature's joy, the once antiseptic air was filled with honeysuckle and daffodils, the beautiful quiet and warmth broken often with parts of song from the gardens below and the clock tower above. One could have never guessed that the night before had be subject to the largest blizzard England had ever seen.

In fact, meteorologists on the news station of the radio were quite baffled as they tried to explain how such a mighty and problem-causing storm could have lasted as long as it did without leaving a jot of snow on the ground. In place of clouds and cold air there was a bright, Indian summer sky and spring flowers popping up all over London. So warm and nice was it that mothers had to pull out summer wardrobes just so that their children could go outside. Most schools had already decided there would be no school today- expecting mountainous drifts of snow blocking student's paths. Instead, children everywhere were greeted by marvelous weather, and they played to their hearts content.

In the bathos of the storm, the four Pevensie children remained to learn the truth.

"What did he want?"

Peter's voice, though scratchy, was strong and low, echoing far more impressively around the medical bay than the persistent finches and robins.

"Well- me. My blood. Royal blood. Err-" Edmund sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and chewed it for a moment, not meeting their eyes, "He needed my body."

The first few truths were horrifyingly difficult for Edmund to express. He'd been expending too much of his energy for the past few months hiding what was really happening from his family. Too frequently his deceit had lured his brother and sisters into a state of gentle and safe cocoon, leaving them as ignorant as he possibly could of his Deal with Collins. He was no longer sure _he_ could fully separate fact from fiction. But out of the heart, the mouth speaks- he remembered Aslan and remembered that guilt and untruths no longer had a place in his.

"Your body," Peter repeated, his tone now dull and dark. He lay at Edmund's side, mind sharp and one bandaged arm wrapped firmly around his brother's shoulders. He'd woken up like that and though he had yet to pull away, no one was stupid enough to suggest it, "What exactly did he _want_ with your body?"

"Nothing like that, Peter," Edmund said sharply, dispelling any idea of the kind at once, "It was so he could return to Narnia."

"Narnia?" Lucy asked, incensed at the thought. She was draped over Edmund's legs, her chin resting on his knee. As she spoke, she reached behind her to grasp Susan's hand from where her sister perched on the end of the bed. Happily enough, the older girl was feeling much better than the night before and had yet to throw up again, or to bring up the subject of her and Lucy's quarrel. Lucy was rather hoping it stayed that way.

"Only children can go to Narnia and understand their surroundings." Edmund strained his head forward a bit so that he could meet his sister's eyes instead of staring at the ceiling. "Remember how the Professor talked to us about his uncle- How he couldn't understand Aslan or any of the Animals? Collins wanted to avoid that."

"So when you say he needed your body..." Susan said slowly.

"I mean that he shoved out my soul so that he could take up residence," their brother said, so brutally honest that all three felt chills, "First, though, he had to tell my body everything he knew. A soul doesn't store knowledge- it uses the brain for that. My mind had to know what his knew to operate the way he wanted, and with his soul in my body he could resurrect Jadis. A soul is what gives the body reason to live. Like the driver for an automobile. If he took out my driver, the car- er, body- wouldn't run by itself. But if he put in a _different _one..."

Edmund's nose twisted up in disgust, his teeth gritting ever so slightly, "I can't even imagine what it would have been like."

Peter's mind _did_ have a brief flash of what it would have been like, to see Collins' soul staring at him through Edmund's eyes, sinister and gloating that he would do nothing to fight back, even as his own brother cut him down.

"So- You were- I mean- You were honestly..." his was rasping, not just from breathing in the smoke of that office, but from the tight ball of metal that was jammed in it.

Edmund swallowed, blinking quickly.

"Yes, Peter," he whispered, his own voice tight, "I was."

Peter tightened his hold on his brother's shoulders and rested his head more firmly against the dark hair, hiding a kiss where he buried his face.

Susan scooted closer to the group, bringing Lucy's hand into her lap as she leaned against her sister, "Why did Collins even want to go to Narnia? How did he know about it?"

"His soul was first caught by the Witch as he was passing through to Death. Personally, I think she was fishing for Diggory again, or any child with a magical connection, really. She lucked out with Collins."

"What in Aslan's name could a batty child like Collins do for her?" Peter demanded.

Edmund looked at him, coal eyes lit with some simmering emotion.

"He's the one who started the Hundred Year Winter."

For a long moment, the sound of spring songs was the only noise within the medical bay. Then-

"_What?" _cried three Sovereigns as one, their cry startling the birds outside the window and making them flap upwards in one chattering body of feathering flight.

Edmund shifted in the bed, wincing as his back muscles were engaged.

"Because she'd eaten from it, she couldn't get anywhere near it, remember? Jadis gave him the body of a lost young man from Archenland and trained him in Dark Magic. When he was ready, a few years later, she had him destroy the Tree of Life. She had promised him everything- Wealth, long life, and security for his mother, a thousand magical ways to humble his brother, unbelievable power- Everything he wanted. There wasn't anything he _wouldn't_ do for her. She didn't even have to enchant him- He went willingly."

Edmund pulled a face, sickened as his mind replayed Collins' voice to him, telling him secrets and crimes he shuddered to know.

"He was in love with her."

Peter drew his brother back against him and buried his face in Edmund's neck, pleased when Edmund's grip on his forearm related nothing but firm resolve.

"Anyway, she let him destroy the Tree because she couldn't even go near it. But once he'd struck it down, she let the Magic holding him to the Archenlander's body weaken. Thing was, he was strong enough by then that he could hold himself in Narnia without her help. Of course, Jadis never did like to have competition when it came to power, so Jadis asked him to go on a quest for her. He was to return to Earth, and she would find a child that was of royal blood, mark them, and send them to him. He could then use the body to live with her in Narnia forever, as her Prince."

"Mark how?" Lucy asked, her auburn brows stenciled up in genuine confusion, "How was he supposed to know who it was?"

"Collins wasn't too clear on that point either, but he had faith in Jadis, and let himself return home, still in the body of that poor Archenlander. The face we all placed Collins with."

"That explains why Mother Renee didn't recognize him!" Lucy exclaimed breathlessly, a piece fitting into place, "He was in someone else's body! He looked nothing like her nephew!"

"But for a body that aged in Narnian air, it was very difficult for his body to handle the cold dreary life in England. He moved around a lot, looking for the marked child, all the while growing more desperate because his ailing body was giving out. That was, until a man named Fredrick Hartbee offered him a job at the most elite school in the nation. He accepted the job out of desperation and barely three years later, he found exactly what he was looking for."

Peter didn't like the dry, self-depreciating smile that so familiarly stretched Edmund's lips.

"I don't even think Jadis meant for her Wand to do what it did," his brother murmured softly, fingering his shirt above that cursed spot, "But it stayed with me. And Collins noticed. He said a part of her magic screamed out to him from the scar. He did everything he could to get me to come to his school. That way, he could put me through the paces and keep me distracted until he was finished with casting his spells over me. He was trying to avoid doing damage to 'his' body, but I don't think he minded too much when I got into some scrapes. He thought it would make it easier for him to handle me."

At this, Peter laughed outright; if anything, Edmund was at his most obstinate when injured.

"My exact thoughts," Edmund said, turning his head to grin down at his brother, "But he didn't know me nearly as well as he thought he did. Especially after that rugby incident. I'd had some sense knocked into me while I was 'passed out'... I made a promise. I promised that I would accept what help people could give me. I wouldn't try to do everything by myself."

Edmund paused, flopping his left hand up to rest on the bandaged arm wrapped around his upper half. With light fingers, he gently pinched it.

"Sound familiar, Mr. Magnificent?"

"Oh, shut up," Peter's face was a brilliant red against the white of his bandages, and the more he tried to hide it in his brother's shoulder, the redder it became. Lucy was at the mercy of her giggles.

"You said that, Peter?" she cooed, delightedly spurred on by the light smile growing on her sister's mouth, "That's so sweet!"

"That was so _private_," the blond boy mumbled, wishing he could pinch Edmund back, but lacking the fingers to do so. He glared up at his little brother, heart beating happily at the confident smirk that greeted him, "I can't believe you were actually awake for that."

"I can," Susan retorted, raising her eyebrow, "How many times did this one pretend to be asleep during Christmas Eve?"

"Father Christmas was all right with it!" Edmund exclaimed hotly, arching his eyebrows right back at her, "We had lovely conversations! And I always got fresh coal for my fireplace!"

His siblings snorted, made the mistake of looking at each other, and then burst into laughter. Another round of birds was frightened from the window pane as they battled with their relieved mirth.

"You laugh now," the Just King said, fighting his own smile with a dark glower. The resulting expression made him look almost bewildered, "It wasn't nearly as hilarious when you all had to bundle yourselves into my quarters because you couldn't feel your toes!"

Susan stopped giggling to frown and Lucy immediately sought to change the topic.

"So Collins _was_ the one who intercepted out letter and read it?"

"La. He knew some of the Old Language, after all. But his version was more pidgin than anything. He had to go over it again and again until he thought he understood it well enough. That's how he used Dark Magic- all it is, after all, is a twisted version of Aslan's Tongue."

"A snake's tongue..." Peter murmured.

"Right. Just like Lucy's dream."

"And the lion cub? The fox kit? They were Peter and you?" Lucy asked, and at her brother's nod, added, "Then who were the giant flocks of birds? The ones that followed us around?"

"Nightmares," Edmund said, "Roraithan. Collins had been collecting them from our classmates during the school year for when the time was right. So when Peter opened the door to his office, they came loose and anyone with a Gift was strongly in danger of losing it."

Peter's face grew still with guilt and Susan shifted uncomfortably away from Lucy. For a moment a thick, uneasy energy dulled the air around them. Not even the glory of the summer-in-winter day could seem to break the tight, tenuous silence.

"We all make mistakes," Edmund murmured gently to his siblings, settling deeper into the pillows supporting him and reaching out the hand that wasn't wrapped up with Peter's to reach for his sisters. Lucy took it. "Time and again we've messed things up so badly it seemed nothing could fix them again. Aslan knows I've done my share. But Aslan also forgave me- Every single time. Before I even ask Him to. I can't think of a time He hasn't."

A thought struck Peter broadside in the head that was so painfully obvious, he couldn't believe he hadn't thought to ask it before.

"Hang on, Ed. You said Collins wanted your body- So why did he let me-?"

But, unfortunately for Peter, it was precisely at this moment that raised voices carried to the siblings from outside the room, and the doors to the medical bay swung open to frame the startling apparition of Mrs. Pevensie, followed shortly by a tall, handsome man with a sturdy walking cane. Both of their faces were rigid with fear and flushed with their race from the school's entrance.

The children looked at them in undisguised shock. At long last, it was the High King who spoke on their behalf.

_"Dad?"_

"Who in God's name did this to you?" Mr. Pevensie demanded, livid, "_I'll wring their neck!"_

_

* * *

_**A/N:**

**To those that just read this- I'm thrilled that you're still interested in the story that took 3 MONTHS to update. Sorry if the end feels a little rushed, as well as lacking in much description. I didn't want to take any long in getting this to you, though, so I let bygones be bygones. **

**Just two chapters left! Twenty Nine is spring break for the Pevensies, so we'll be seeing some more of the Mr. and Mrs. along with possible guest appearance of certain ex-scaly cousins. Whatever wasn't wrapped up here will be tied off with a bow there! **

**Also, chapter thirty is a type of epilogue, but it is so essential to the plot that I can't wait to get it out to you all. ;D We'll be learning about _Susan's_ Gift there...  
**

**Saw a grammar/spelling mistake, plot hole, or just really need to tear something apart? Leave your comments via review or private message! It's always beneficial to find errors so that they can be repaired. Think of it this way: you get to expel all that locked-up aggression and other people benefit from it.  
**

**Thanks for reading!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

**P.S: For anyone who's curious about what happened to Rupert Collins, I'm planning on creating a one-shot for him. There's more to the story than can fit here. **

**New Vocabulary:**

coterie- _a select group_

bathos- _anticlimax_

torsion- _spiral twist_

imprecation- _spoken curse_**  
**


	29. Twenty Nine: Paths Entwined

**P.E**

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: Paths Entwined**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: I am one step closer to never owning the Pevensies or any of their accouterments.**

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_"Because narrow is the gate and difficult is the way which leads to life, and there are few who find it," Matthew 7:14_

* * *

Edmund was late.

I knew, because I'd been scribbling away with one hand while ravenously beginning to feed myself with the other, and had somehow managed to subconsciously train myself into looking up at the clock every thirty seconds on the dot. As of that moment, the time keeper above the pub bar stretched its arms out over the ten and the fifteen, lazily clucking at the hustle and bustle of the Saturday morning breakfast rush.

Lately, of course, Edmund had been far more prone to lateness, so I honestly couldn't dredge up the irritation with my brother that such a case would normally merit. In fact, I would be surprised if my fellow king were to make it in another fifteen minutes. The roads were terrible, awash with muddy slush from the recent thaw and children working their way through it to the park or cinema. It'd been difficult enough for_ me _to venture outside- who knew how Ed was faring? I could hardly impetrate more from him than from myself.

Perhaps I should have met up with him at a different location...

"Here you are, sir," a waiter slipped the mug of steaming black coffee in front of me with a polite smile, which I easily returned as I pushed away the half-finished plate of toast and salted eggs. I finished a side note on hyssop and set aside the black book to focus on stirring the placid surface of my drink. Edmund had told me the coffee here was the best in London, and upon sipping a scalding taste, I'd have to say that he was right. It was good, strong stuff and I needed it desperately.

After another thirty-second increment glance at the clock, my eyes refocused on the newsprint splayed out atop the wooden table.

_MURDERER DETAINED BY EMPLOYERS AND AWAITING TRIAL: FAMILIES SCANDALIZED!_

_23 January 1945_

_by John Robert Hatch, journalist._

_Last Sunday, after the scandal of Hartbee's School for Young Men, where one staff member was burned alive, another stabbed, and a child kidnapped by the Headmaster ( a Mr. James Collins) the Board of Trustees for the private institution spotted Collins as he was boarding a ship to Ellis Island. They had been making a trip to the school and as soon as they recognized the criminal they called the police, setting out to detain the murderer. The ex-headmaster was soon overwhelmed and kept from boarding the ship as crew members and other passengers were quick to give additional aid._

'_One bystander commented that the villain looked "Quite roughed up by the end of it, though' I don' be thinkin' that was the doin' of any trustee; it looked like somethin' had clean bit through his shoulder!' _

_Indeed, upon arrest, a wound much like a monstrous bite was reported by the medical examiner. The teeth marks were later identified and reported to the media by an astounded zoologist, who admitted that they were strangely identical to the Asiatic lion, though the size of the bite was three times too large. (The London Zoo has not been available for comment on the whereabouts of its main attraction to the Grasslands Exhibit. Parents are warned to keep their children indoors, in the event the beast has not been reclaimed.) _

_With the criminal behind bars, it now becomes an issue of securing proper management and weal for the school. One of the board and founder of the school, Mr. Fredrick Hartbee announced that, "We will be closing the school until Mr. Hamilton has fully recovered from the attack so that he may begin his career as the new Head. We will also renew the scholarship presented to Mr. Peter and Edmund Pevensie, and have made conciliations for the outrage that has occurred here." Unfortunately, both Peter and Edmund Pevensie were unavailable for comment as to whether or not they will be returning to finish the second term at Hartbee's School for Young Men._

_The King's College Hospital, however, has promised Mr. Hamilton will make a full recovery and be back to coach the season's winning team by late Febr-_

"-You're early," a vaguely irritated voice broke into my thoughts. I looked up at that, with an infernal happiness welling in me when my eyes caught on the recovering form of my best friend and champion. He was bundled so securely that I knew it had been Lucy who had helped him get out of the house that morning. A wool hat capped dark ringlets, a wool scarf was tied tightly to his throat, a black wool coat swamped him with its heavy down lining. The one thing he lacked were gloves, but that was because he needed to feel the crook of the cane that held him upright.

"You said meet at ten o'clock. I was here at nine-fifty."

"I said I could get_ away _at ten o'clock. Not for you to meet me at ten o'clock," Edmund retorted, limping the remaining steps over to the seat across from me, and propping his cane against the chair back as he fairly collapsed down into it. I felt my gut jump a little with concern, urging me to half-rise from my own chair.

"Are you all right? I know the roads must have been murder out there. I should have-"

"-Shut up, Peter," Edmund told me abruptly. He had already shed his black wool coat and was pulling off his woolen noose even as he snagged my abandoned fork to stab at the toast crusts littering the plate edges, "I'm starved."

"You're always starved." But I made sure that the plate found its way closer to the new arrival, and it was quickly relieved of all edible substance.

Around a mouthful of soggy toast and over-salted eggs, a pair of onyx eyes lit on the folded newsprint I had been reading. Edmund swallowed, brow contracting for only a moment before he stole the mug of coffee as well and helped himself to a sip of bitter caffeine. I wonder if he knew I could see the flicker of mental back-tracking in his eyes- just before I also saw a darker flicker signal an imperious foot of Edmund's Justice slamming down. My younger brother wiped his mouth and folded his fingers into the smudged cloth, turning his heavy gaze upon me. Something in my heart strained to reach across the table.

"I was just trying to see if anything else had been dug up about what happened, Ed."

Edmund sighed and threw the napkin away from him, pulling the article into his lap and scanning the lines. He scowled, "This says even less than the one they circulated last week."

The front cover of my black book flapped open and fell loosely shut again. "It says he's been imprisoned," I offered.

"_To be tried by his peers_," Edmund murmured reverently, "Aslan told us as much. I suppose it is a relief to know it's happening _now _rather than a year or so from now."

I said nothing, but observed my sibling openly. I stroked my thumb across the spine of the black book, the front cover flapping open and shut and open again.

"Well, no need to deafen me," my little brother said, peering at me closely, though I did not feel entitled to close off my expression, "You're worried about what I've been up to lately, huh? What my plans are?"

"I know you won't go back," I answered simply. When had my brother ever gone back to the way things were? "You won't return to Hartbee's next term. And I know you've been cooking up something that involves Lucy, too."

Edmund snorted and threw back a gulp of coffee as though it were a refreshing glass of chilled lemonade.

"It was Lucy's idea," he told me, smirking as I tried to pull the mug back towards me and his grip didn't relinquish it, "We were talking about temptation and how beautiful it is."

"Seems a strange conversation."

"Well, it wouldn't exactly be tempting if it was disgusting, would it?" he asked me, "Do you think I would have gone to Jadis if she'd had a hooked nose and warts?"

The image presented a smug sense of justice served to those who deserved it, and I laughed while Edmund smiled back and distractedly turned his head in search of the waiter.

"I suppose not."

"Definitely not," my brother assured me, "There's no 'suppose' about it; I would have run screaming into the woods."

"So you're saying," I teased innocently, "that if a perfectly _sweet _girl who just happened to be born with a hooked nose and had a few unfortunate warts were to walk up to you-"

"-I'm saying, Mr. Magnificent," my brother interrupted smoothly, if with some annoyance, and turning to face me head-on, "That it's often the case things that are very, very bad for you are the things that look the most appealing at the time. I mean, Jadis was easily the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen."

He paused, nose wrinkling slightly in thought, "She's _still _the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

And the most terrifying.

"Don't tell that to Susan," I warned, "She's gone off the deep end about cosmetics lately."

"And I have a bad feeling it's not the last of it, either," Edmund muttered, waving as he finally succeeded in hailing down the waiter.

"What d'you mean by that, Ed?" A stone, roughly half a cubit cubed, settled in the pit of my gut and sat there, crushing my breakfast with its weight and threatening to displace it up my throat. My brother's dark eyes shuttered with a grim look, but even as he opened his mouth to answer, the waiter swept down on us, a pad ready and a towel flung over his shoulder, stained from where he'd been mopping up a table only moments before.

"Can I help you, sir?"

Edmund turned a cordial smile up at the man, but his hand was drumming the table top, "Another coffee for my brother and an extra for me."

The waiter nodded, jotting something down as he turned away, and Edmund called after him, "And a proper utensil would be nice!"

The waiter stilled, turning back with a far brighter and honest smile than before.

"Right away, sir!" he said cheerfully, practically running away from us in his haste.

"What was that about?" I wondered in bemusement.

I swear the lopsided grin my brother flashed at me could have been considered coy. With teeth stilled bared, he picked up the book I'd been writing in and flipped idly through the pages. I could tell by the way his mouth was set, he was fairly bursting to tell me anyway, and I resolved to let things that didn't require prodding to ferment on their own.

"Fine," there was still the subject of our beloved Gentle Queen, however, "Then what were you saying about Susan just getting started with this whole appearance obsession?"

"It's Collin's curse still in action," Edmund said after a time. He sounded just as worn as he had in the aftermath of that nightmarish ordeal. Just after he had been- But I couldn't think of that now that he was sitting across from me, breathing and speaking and talking just as he always had.

"You said that curse was broken when Aslan took away his Dark Magic."

"I said that we could _throw it off _if we wanted to. Collins was stripped of his power to cast more spells, and we were able to end the one over us if we trusted Aslan to do it. My faith was replaced, as was yours. My Gift was restored, as was yours. But I- I can't be sure that _Susan_... for whatever reason, still hasn't been put right."

"You think Susan doesn't _want _to be put right?" The very idea was ludicrous but Ed was nodding gravely before I could even finish the question, "But why _wouldn't _she?"

Edmund stared at my writings, looking for inspiration in my hand, searching for answers in what I had researched and studied.

"...Temptation is a beautiful thing," he whispered, so softly I had to strain to hear him. He snapped my book closed and set it in front of me again, looking up to capture my attention as it tripped into the depth of his dark gaze, "It's about freedom for some. Independence. Others want security- just one or two things that they're convinced they can't survive without, yet can't stand depending on someone else for. _You_ have to be the one to get it, or to take it. The only person you feel you can trust is _yourself_. You don't trust _anyone else _to take care of what you treasure above all else. And you'll do _whatever it takes_, Peter," he strained, eyes intense, "You'll do _anything_ to ignore that small voice telling you to let go of your pride and rely on someone else."

"...Edmund," I breathed, wonder striking me as I began to realize, "_You_-"

"-Your coffee, sir!" The waiter was back, practically rocking on his heels as he set the two cups down with an extra pair of silver spoons and what appeared to be a small, rolled-up piece of paper in front of Edmund.

The placid surface of our drinks had nothing on the blank look my brother summoned to greet the waiter with. With a smile that was all politeness and only partial sincerity, he pulled out his wallet and dispensed several bills into the waiter's open palm (which was quick to close around them) and turned to pocket the paper. The waiter was gone before I could blink. Somehow, I didn't think we'd be receiving the change back. I looked to my brother for explanation, but he was looking into his cup as he carefully sipped it, his countenance not forthcoming with any information.

"What in Aslan's name is going on here, Ed?" I demanded, "Why the subterfuge?"

He bothered to glance up at me, but was otherwise unruffled.

"Jack is my informant. I usually have to pay more."

_"_What in Aslan's name you do mean he's your _infor-_?"

A swift kick was delivered to my shin and I yelped, reaching below the table to rub at the surely forming bruise.

"Honestly, Peter," my brother mumbled with exasperation over the rim of his cup, "There was a reason I was in charge of stealth missions and you were not."

"Edmund," my expression should have been warning enough, let alone my tone. But threats had never done anything to my brother but make him more obstinate. I leaned across the table instead, making sure my voice was filled with nothing but love- from one brother to another, "Tell me what's going on."

China _clinked_ and the soft pads of pale fingers were back to drumming a war cadence on the table. I felt a distinct pull on the warrior part of my brain at the sound of the Narnian battle rhythm. My blood knew I was supposed to be taking up my position on the frontline. It shifted, and I knew I was supposed to be retreating.

Twin onyx flickered knowingly, and the drumming ceased, releasing me from its spell and making me dizzily reach for my own cup of coffee.

"It's hard to let go of habit when it's been drilled into you. When it makes you," he glanced at the newspaper again, a sneer passed through his features, before he calmed again, "Being a King is almost everything I've ever known. Before that is blurrier with each day. But Narnia only seems to become clearer with every passing moment. We were the most powerful family in that world. We would have done anything to protect one another. You've almost died protecting me. I've always tried to return the favor."

Something about the way he said that caused a chill to rattle down my spine, and I cupped my hands around my mug in order to ward it off.

"It's goes beyond being named the Protector of our family. I think that Aslan could have done just as well by never telling me about what my name meant. Once I had been put in His good graces, and once I had been reunited with you three, I think I was prepared to do anything to make up for what I had done. _Temptation is a beautiful thing_... But once I had seen it for what it really was I was appalled. I was determined. I would never fall to that same temptation again. I would never give up my family for anything. Not for anything or anyone. For years I protected you all from Death. For years I accepted that I was able to because of Aslan's Gift to me."

The laughs of a group of older men from the back corner of the shop filled my ears, and Edmund and I patiently waited for the rabble to die down. He was looking at the handle of his cup, fiddling with his napkin with one fidgety hand. I was not able to watch anything but him.

"So, what changed?"

Edmund's dark head shot up and he looked at me, aghast, "_Everything_ changed, Peter. We changed! We came back and we were kids again! One minute my Gift was at its full power- I could see the sins of people who tried to kill you- and the next it'd be so weak that the most I could feel while any of you were in danger would be a slight _stomach ache!_ It _scared _me. More than you getting temperamental for the first time in your life. More than Lucy worrying about being as pretty as Susan. I didn't know how I was supposed to save your life anymore, so I figured it was safe here. That I wouldn't have to anymore. It was-"

He made a sharp gesture with his hand, pulling at his hair with the other in an image of wordless frustration. I could imagine how he felt. When I first came back, I found out it was harder to hold my temper than in Narnia- my first hint that my Gift was weaker here than there. _There _I had to keep sane in light of massacres. _Here _I only had enough of a Gift to battle extreme irritation. Even then, though, I had had Edmund to straighten me out when I'd gotten too rough.

"I was used to stomach aches, by then, though," Edmund continued, "I began to feel them more and more often. Even after you'd calmed down and Lucy and I saw Aslan for the last time. I started to have this building pain in my stomach one day and it just didn't stop. I couldn't understand it. You weren't picking fights. Lucy wasn't sick. Susan was as rational as ever. None of you were in any danger that I could sense. It nearly drove me insane, trying to ignore it. But it became impossible to ignore anymore. I started throwing up after lunch while we were still at Hendon House. People thought I was bulimic. I didn't know what I was doing wrong. I began looking into the friends and enemies of each of you. I tried to talk to them, to see if any of them made me sicker."

"They didn't?"

He shook his head slowly, his mind elsewhere. His cup was slowly revolving between his palms, the liquid never moving.

"One day, our teacher decided to show us a picture from the Great War. A painting. He said it was an accurate depiction of the effects of war. He said we should be against any war between any nations. I don't even remember the man's name. He was very liberal, though. He'd never fought in a war before, but I had. When he offered to pass the copy of the picture around I looked at it. I hadn't thought- But once I'd looked I couldn't' look away, you understand. I felt...so..."

Lost. He sounded lost. I reached out and grabbed at one of his hands, firmly wrapping it in my own.

"What did you see?"

My little brother turned his face up, expression breaking something inside of my heart.

"_You_," he whispered, "I saw_ you_. Tall and magnificent and- You were surrounded by other men, holding onto a man's pack with one hand. You were facing up, like you were still trying to see but your _eyes_-"

_'There weren't eyes...' _I knew.

The hand in my hold spasmed, the muscles jerking with revulsion and terror, tendons straining against such a reality, consanguineous blood throbbing with heartache. It was Life daring Death to deface something it so cherished. It was _his _life in my hand.

"My teacher thought I was having a fit. I don't even remember running, if I'm honest. The next thing I know, I'm sitting outside under some statue and a boy from my class is bringing me my books and something to wipe my mouth off with because I'd apparently thrown up again- all over that horrible picture. My teacher assumed I knew someone that had happened to and excused me for the day."

He shook his head to derail a thought, much like a horse bucking an incompetent rider, before he rushed into the next part of this horror story;

"I tried to calm myself down. Dad was already enlisted, right? I couldn't believe I'd missed how old you were getting. Almost eighteen again. College was looking impossible in light of mum's financial hardships. Dad had only gotten back and his leg was still gimp and needed a doctor. He seemed confident the whole thing would be over in another year, but I knew how vicious could be in its final year. It's all the last, desperate, reckless attempts to win. It's the most dangerous. My friends who had older brothers had them be enlisted left and right. I began to panic."

"When was all this?" And where was_ I? _

Dry though my throat was, I couldn't bear to do more than move my lips. A sort of stillness had descended on my brother and I- the only sounds were words, the only movements of our voices. Anything more could disrupt the awry balance. I was breathless before the heavy truths unloading themselves from my brother's lips. At long last, he was confiding in me again.

"Last spring. 1944."

"So that was when you met Collins?"

Edmund grimaced, "Not quite. Before Collins showed up, I'd been sure that you would end up in Her Majesty's service, so I... Well-" He gave a short laugh, red building in his cheekbones, "It seems very ridiculous now."

I tilted my head a little in offering.

"They wanted Peter Pevensie for service, right?" he asked me with a tiny sort of smirk, "They wanted his papers, a birth certificate for him, and a chap that looked like the description. So... I figured I'd just-"

With one hand, he weighed the air, flicking imaginary dust off of his palm as he resettled it on the table, "I'd become you."

"You'd **what?**" I exclaimed, and it wasn't until Edmund shot me a fierce look that I realized I'd been making as if to stand up and my voice had carried clear throughout the cafe. Strangers looked up in curiosity and one or two frowned at the disruption. I abruptly sat back down, turning my voice to a threatening hiss, "_Are you out of your mind? _You'd just _become_ me and fight in my place?_"_

"I was thinking a little irrationally at the time," Edmund shot back, "I was desperate and having my feeling constantly gnawing at me wasn't exactly helping."

"You should have come to me, Edmund. I could have helped you figure something out!"

"What part of 'irrational' escapes you, _mo provis_?"

"Ed, you know you can _always _come to me for help!" I reminded him, distraught.

"I know that. But then, I'd been so concerned with saving you, that I didn't even consider asking you for help. I was desperate. I would have done anyth-" he swallowed and blinked, face twisting to right itself. In a far calmer tone, he told me, "I would have done anything, Peter."

"I know you would," I assured him, wondering for the first time if I really did. But, after all... "That's how Collins found you?"

"Desperation and Pride are not a good combination," he intoned, "Collins sensed both and snatched me up like a shiny shilling on the sidewalk."

I collapsed backwards into my chair, "Aslan, Ed," I said breathlessly.

"I wasn't thinking about Aslan. I was thinking about being a protector and saving you from dying in an unfamiliar war. Collins promised me the one thing I couldn't seem to find anywhere else- a future for you besides war and death."

"The scholarship," my mouth said. My mind was still catching up.

"The scholarship. The only reason he let you go to Hartbee's School was because I wouldn't go without you. And he really wanted me, as you recall, so he let you come along as well."

"Did you- Did you know what he really wanted? Back then?"

Edmund looked at me. A slant was forming between his eyes, drawing the slightest crease in his brow.

"Edmund, tell me you didn't know."

His eyes were glassy, like polished marble. From the corner of one, a drip of water flowed over, gravity spreading it downwards until a path was formed from it, and the remainder fell, hitting the placid surface of his coffee with a gentle _plink_.

"_Edmund_," my voice was pleading from the end of a very long tunnel, echoing in my ears, "_You __**didn't**_..."

"Temptation," he murmured, "is a beautiful thing."

My stomach's bottom dropped out and I was suddenly very glad to be sitting down. I couldn't even begin to think about what my own brother was implying. I couldn't bear to think that he would have-

"I didn't know he was the Witch's servant," he comforted, watching me carefully, though not making a move to touch my hand with his own, "I didn't know that he meant to harm you or the girls. I only knew that he was serious about giving you a scholarship and getting you into any college of your choice. He made it seem like I was only there to promote a good public opinion of the school, but I could sense it was much more than that. I didn't care about what happened to me as long as you were safe."

"Ed-" my voice was weak and broke off before a thought could even be formed. What did one say to something like that? How did one respond to such unabashed devotion? Such _stupidity?_

"It wasn't until things began to happen that I realized what I'd done to Aslan," Edmund wiped at his eyes, "I hurt my back and you talked to me about not facing things by myself and it was like I just... Woke up. When Collins came to see me I told him I quit on the spot."

"Bet he took that well," I said automatically. I could remember the conversation my brother spoke of frighteningly well.

Edmund snorted, "Oh, yes. I believe that was the closest to openly threatening me that he'd ever come before. It actually made it easier to come clean the same way that he was."

Somehow, I knew that Edmund's idea of "coming clean" involved invoking the cripplingly presence of King Edmund the Just to its full potential, and the image of my fearsome brother facing down a cowering snake filled my mind. My awe doubled when I reminded myself that it was due to _my_ bedside speech that my little brother had found the strength to break with evil a second time.

A hand gripped my wrist, and I faced its owner.

"I was going to tell you, Peter, after that. I swear it. I was going to tell you everything before-"

"I know." And, this time, I did know. Edmund had changed after that encounter. He'd become more like himself. More like my brother. And my brother told me _everything_. "I believe you."

Edmund didn't pull away, "So you want to know what's going on."

"Going on?"

Edmund reached into his pocket for the rolled up piece of paper and handed it out to me.

I looked at it, but did not stretch out my hand to accept it.

"The high road is narrow and dangerous," Edmund spoke as though he was remembering something from a different place and time, "A steep fall waits for those who trip or stray. Monsters lay in wait to knock travelers off. Snakes lay in the rocks, prepared to poison anyone who takes a misstep. Anyone who is too proud to ask for help will surely fall. Without a companion, no one will be there to help them up."

"You're talking about the road to Salvation, Ed," I said, with some surprise.

"Peter- We've grown up fighting monsters and snakes, haven't we?"

"Is this literal or figurative?"

"It doesn't matter," Edmund was grinning widely, nearly blinding me with the utter brilliance and happiness that was radiating out of him, "We've taken on both, haven't we? With Aslan's blessing?"

"All right."

"All right. So, what about people who haven't?" He was leaning across the table and an infectious power seemed to flow between us, rebounding and building, "Or better yet- What about the dragons that can be UN-dragoned? What about the people under spells that make them monsters? What about the people that can't be cured because they don't know there is one? What if we can watch out for people who might be taken up by Temptation like we have?"

"You're talking about helping people make the right decisions? Are these people we know or people we don't know?"

"Anyone who needs it, Peter. Anyone. Everyone. We face them and help them."

"Dragons can be brutal," I reminded him.

"They can be greedy, too. But maybe all of them are really lonely."

"It was _Aslan _that undragoned Eustace, Ed. Not people like us." I was hesitant to correct him. I was also hesitant to let him repeat the same mistakes.

Both of my brother's hands were covering mine now, and he pulled them towards his lips, face splitting with an unnameable emotion. It was hard to deny him a smile in return. It was hard to deny him anything.

"We bring them to Him, then. We bring them to Him, we let Him work as He will, and we let Him work through us to be an example for others."

"Like an ambassador."

"Exactly like an ambassador. Come' on Peter," he wheedled, "Lucy and Eustace are already a part of it. In fact, it was Lucy's idea. We can get Cain and Thomas to be a part of it, or any number of boys from Hartbee's. Maybe even Hamilton would be interested, eh? That way we can all keep in touch, even when you go off to Oxford this autumn. What d'you say?"

"You know Hamilton will want to help you with your physical training," I warned him.

"It'll give you a chance to record my medical progress in your book, then," my brother said snarkily, eying my black notebook with some distaste, "You should jump at such an opportunity."

I grinned, twisting my hand around in his so that I clasped him, palm to palm, and shook our joined hands from side to side rather than up and down. In response, Edmund kissed his free palm and fairly smacked it against my forehead in blessing, the warm of his skin sinking into my own and causing a small light to breathe up in my chest. Within seconds, I felt filled by it.

"Then welcome to the Friends of Narnia,_ mo Syr_," said my brother and king, "and be prepared: we have work to do."

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**A/N: The picture Edmund talked about in this chapter actually exists. It's called "Gassed" and it was painted by Robert Singer. When I saw it for the first time last year, I saw Peter standing in the center and immediately thought of Edmund. If you look closely, the boy holding onto the blond man in the center actually **_**looks**_** like Edmund.**

**I took liberties with starting the Friends of Narnia as a sort of underground mission to help the people of England, but if I can get around to writing a few oneshots about it, you'll find that the first Seven are the seven that appear in the Narnia series (Diggory, Polly, Peter, Edmund, Lucy, Eustace, and Jill). The Friends manage to find quite a few adventures as well, even though most of them are bound to Earth. But, as Edmund said, there are plenty of dragons in our world that need undragoning. So sorry that I didn't put Eustace in this chapter. I dearly wanted to, but I also dearly wanted to finish the chapter and give it to you. Guess which one took priority?**

**Saw a grammar mistake or misspelling? Feel the characters were OOC? Want to know what happened to other characters? Review! I'd be more than happy to answer your questions or address your concerns.**

**Hope you all had a terrific Thanksgiving (or at leas the weekend, if you don't celebrate that particular holiday).**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**

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**New Vocabulary:**

**impetrate: to ask for, entreat**

**consanguineous- of the same blood, related through blood.**

**weal- prosperity (but also a raised bump on the surface of the body from a physical blow)**


	30. Thirty: Epilogue's Prologue

**P.E**

**Chapter Thirty: Epilogue's Prologue**

**By Tonzura123**

**Disclaimer: Well, Jack: a toast to you. *raises glass*

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_"Where can I go from your Spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence? If I ascend into heaven, You are there; If I make my bed in hell, behold, You are there," Psalm 139:7-8_

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She had been living alone for two months before she decided to sell the house.

That was two months of eating by herself, making food for herself, forcing herself to get up in time to prepare breakfast for a single person, cleaning the house that never dirtied, working in the garden that never bloomed, sitting in a living room that was dead, ignoring the ringing phone until well-wishers had forgotten that she, out of all of them, had indeed survived. Her friends didn't invite her to parties or splurges at the department stores anymore, unwilling to add the somber weight to their gay flirtations, and she didn't invite them into the house. Her house, it now was. It was silence was more full than their empty jawing. Yet it was a loathsome loneliness that she endured- the result of her own desperate wishing.

So she had easily decided, or rather, obeyed, when a small voice whispered to her one night as if from a dream... Or a dream of a dream.

'_It is a good place for anyone who wishes to make a new start...'_

It came upon her like a ghostly messenger. Delivering and vanishing before she could turn her head to see it.

And again, the next night, just as she was falling asleep...

'_Your brother and sister have learned all they can from this world...'_

Now a slight touch, a phantom pull somewhere in her chest. She lifted a sleep-weighted hand to touch the spot but it ceased and all she felt was a single heartbeat thrumming without purpose.

And by the third night...It was no longer a memory.

'_Daughter, daughter, why do you not search for Me?'_

A question, command, reprimand, and promise all at once. All of them leveled at her. She dropped to her knees as the Voice shook the house, the yard, the city, surely the _world_. Surely others felt it, too! Surely it had been speaking to her all this time, waiting for her._ Calling her_.

_Where was it calling her from? Where was the source of the hook tangled in that purposelessly thrumming muscle?_

One week and the deed was done. The house had sold quickly- it was one of the few that had withstood the London bombings, all those years ago. Families were anxious to purchase it. It sold without a hitch. Many of the worldly possessions packed within its walls went to charity. She watched the men come and clear out their rooms, stripping from the walls and closets belongings that had always been associated with _them. _Childhood memories were pawned to strangers. All she had left of them paid for her passage to freedom. All of them for a single, one-way ticket.

All- save for three items: a drawing, a handwritten book, and a three-legged kitten named Wisp. One memory, one glimmer of each of them for her life in the Shadowlands. Light and perfect for travel. Even now, she skimmed a finger over the drawing, packing away the book that was filled with medical notes and moving the rescued grey kitten off of the neatly folded clothes. She owned two simple black dresses now. The others had payed for their headstones.

"I really wish you'd let Cain and me help you out," a tall Scotsman remarked from the doorway. His car was waiting downstairs, preparing to take her to the ship. If she could have found a way around asking for his help, she would have. But she had already sold the Bentley. And she never traveled by train.

"I don't need help. This is something I need to do by myself." But when had that stopped him? The royal family had trained him well- Even in death, the High King's influence was buried deep in this man's soul and mind. He only proved her correct in her assumptions when he replied;

"Well, you know, we already own several homes over there. So you might see us anyway. Whether you like it or not."

"Lodgings will come in their own time."

The kitten meowed and hopped back onto the clothes, purring and kneading its claws into the fabrics. She lifted it up and settled it on the bare mattress, where it continued to make itself a nest, golden eyes squinted in bliss.

"Listen," the man continued, tone eager but carefully restrained, "I know- Well. I _know_. _We_ know. When we were in school together, they told us all about Narnia and Aslan."

"Did they?" She hadn't known they'd been made aware so quickly. She'd always thought her brothers had waited a few years to reveal what they could not even explain to their parents.

"Yeah! And that they'd go to Aslan's Country when they- When they left..."

She laughed, the sound amazingly dull.

"Don't bother softening it, Thomas. They're dead. All of them are dead now."

Thomas dropped his eyes, blinking hard. Even after two months, the soft-hearted gentleman found it hard to believe. The last time he had seen his friends was when they'd been playing rugby together and Edmund had injured his knee, forcing him to fore-go the match so that his brother could support him off of the pitch.

"Edmund said he never felt more alive than when he was in Aslan's paws," said a second, burlier man as he entered the room, keys in hand, "And if he's with Aslan right now, you can bet he's doing better than he ever would in a place like this."

Here he gestured to the barren walls of her old room with open disdain. Though tempered from his school days, Cain retained that same cutting edge to his word choice. It made for an effective tool, and easily cut through nonsense.

Yet another way her siblings had influenced them.

"Life in death," she remembered, as Wisp stretched and stood, jumping off the bed to wind around her legs, "They loved to speak of it. They were never afraid of it."

There was silence, save for the kitten's purrs and the traffic outside of the shuttered windows.

"But they weren't ready to die," she turned back to the suitcase, thoughts gathered, "Their lives were stolen by a petty thief."

"Susan, it was an _accident," _Thomas entreated, dark eyes wide, "Just a faulty braking system. It wasn't anyone's doing!"

She laughed again, louder and actually amused.

"I thought so, too. But..." Delicate fingers stilled in smoothing a plain black blouse.

Cain's eyes sharpened, "What is it?"

Blue eyes struck at common brown, and Cain found his gaze wavering beneath the power and majesty of hers.

"Her dream never came true."

Neither man could doubt who "she" was, listening to the awe and respect bathing her voice. A strange light seemed to fill her as she spoke, drawing her up to a height higher than before.

"Edmund never_ really _died- He didn't stay dead. He hadn't been punctured by fangs or crushed by a snake. Peter never fell into a sleep so deep that even his brother's agony couldn't wake him. That always bothered me. The others were willing to think it was over. But I knew it wasn't. Lucy's dreams_ always _came true..."

She looked down, and for a moment, her resolution seemed to shudder, making her look like a young woman again.

"...And I didn't want it to. Even when I could tell Edmund was having _that feeling_ again-"

The column of her snowy neck bobbed with a swallow, her pretty mouth became stern.

"I'm alive because I didn't want it to come true. Any of it. But it did anyway at the station. I saw Edmund's... His body-" a hand over her mouth as she cleared her throat, "-He was stabbed twice, not just crushed. See if the mortician didn't try to blame _that_ on the debris from the wreck." She violently tossed a pair of socks into the case, "Dark Magic may not have been involved, but I'd recognize a knife wound anywhere. He made sure he finished the job."

"What are you saying?" Cain wondered, leaning against the door jamb and flicking the ring of keys around his index finger as he watched the kitten begin to clean itself, "You think Collins caused the train to wreck? You think Aslan let him?"

A slim finger traced the faded lines of the drawing once more, lightly kissing the beaten and broken hand that stretched from the shadows for that single celandine buried in snow. Even after all those years, Lucy's drawing of "Hope Grows" seemed to light a small fire in the viewer's chest. If anything, its message burned hotter than ever. Her heart was frayed by wear, scorched by the awesome strength in the image.

"I think this is all part of something bigger. Maybe I'm alive for a reason. Maybe I still have something to do here- in this world- before I move on to Aslan's Country myself." It was funny. For years she had sought to separate herself from them, thinking distance would encourage reality. Now all she yearned for was a fantastic and swift reunion.

"A reason like what?" Thomas asked warily.

"Like finding treacherous snakes," Cain guessed, and he could see he guessed correctly when her mouth ticked up again in a smirk uncannily like her younger brother's, "You suspect he's in America, right?"

"Yes."

"And our plan of finding him? After all, Pevensie," Cain drawled, "There're quite a few people in America for us to sift through."

"Oh, I always find what I'm looking for. After all," Susan laid the drawing atop her belongings and closed the latch with a decisive _click_.

"It _is _a Gift of mine."

...

_"The books don't tell us what happened to Susan. She is left alive in this world at the end, having by then turned into a rather silly, conceited young woman. But there's plenty of time for her to mend and perhaps she will get to Aslan's country in the end . . . in her own way."_

_-C.S Lewis_

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**A/N:**

**Wisp and the book with medical notes both have stories attached to them, so they'll be out in due time to explain. **

**For the record, I never intended to have Susan finish things up quite like this. My original intent was to write this last chapter as if from a newspaper clipping, or even at the funeral. To have Susan go after Collins, however, was always something I wanted to happen. She may get her own story, too. She's going to see some familiar faces while in America. **

**Thank you, to all my readers. These past two years have been a blast for me, and I hope I've given you all something you felt you could enjoy and look forward to. In all honesty, I'd never thought I'd be able to finish this story, although I always, **_**always **_**thought on it and how to improve it. So, here's hoping you've all seen a development of my writing as time as gone by. Writing "P.E" actually made me decide on my future career, believe it or not. I'm going to be a high school English teacher. :D Watch out, kids! Maybe I'll be able to publish some of my own books... It's thanks to all of you that I'm even attempting it.**

**I'll be putting up the first chapter of "Monochrome" soon. It takes place in the first year of the Pevensie's reign, only months after the Witch is defeated. There will be violence, nightmares, visions, wagon rides, and plenty of brotherly moments for all of you. **

**My love to you all! God bless you!**

**As Always,**

**-Tonzura123**


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